Gilding the Son of Lily
by Publicola
Summary: Most self-inserts are exercises in vanity, and nothing says 'vanity' quite like Gilderoy Lockhart. But with a new personality, knowledge of the future, and an unwavering resolve to help Harry Potter survive, who knows? Maybe Lockhart will turn out to be a useful DADA teacher after all.
1. Magical Me

Gilding the Son of Lily  
By Publicola

Disclaimer: Rated 'T' for language (the 'M' is just a precaution). This fic was inspired by Skysaber's "My Gilded Life," though I will certainly be taking it in a different direction. Lastly, I do not own Harry Potter or Gilderoy Lockhart, nor do either of them own me. Sorry, it had to be said.

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**Chapter 1: Magical Me!**

It was an inauspiciously cloudy morning. "Bloody English weather," I mumbled under my breath as I wrestled my limbs out of bed. Shambling to the bath I reflexively called out "lights."

I froze.

What the hell? I don't live with voice-activated lighting! I was suddenly overwhelmed by the space around me. This wasn't my room, I don't live like this. Yet somehow I knew that I did. I recognized everything, knew instinctively where everything would be. I glanced out the window again. English weather? Bloody hell, I'm an American. I've never even been to England. "Merlin," I breathed. How did I wind up here?

…

Did I just say Merlin?

…

Oh, hell no. You have got to be kidding me. I dashed to the mirror.

Deep breath. So, good news and bad news. The good news is, my bed hair looks like I just got it primped at a professional salon. The bad news is, I'm pretty sure neither my hair nor my face actually belongs to me. In fact, considering I now live in England, swear by Merlin, and look like that guy from "Much Ado About Nothing" (though the hair is, somehow, floofier), I'm pretty sure I now inhabit the body of Gilderoy Lockhart.

You know, Gilderoy Lockhart? Order of Merlin Third Class? Honorary member of the Dark Force Defense League? Or how 'bout this: five-time winner of Witch Weekly's 'Most Charming Smile' Award? Does that ring a bell?

I stare at myself in the mirror. Is it wrong that I feel a sudden and insane desire to sing "I feel pretty, oh so pretty"? Damn it.

Okay, so how did I get here? A memory from the previous night flashes through my mind. What do you know? I'm not sure if a neighbor maybe decided to break out their old "Jumanji" set or something, but what I remember is that last night I was reading a Harry Potter fan fic, and this morning I woke up living it.

Huh. How 'bout that?

I look around the room and find a slender piece of crafted wood lying on my bed table. My wand. Wait… I wonder what it would feel like to actually cast magic. I pick it up, visualize a bright light, and state very clearly: "Lumos."

Pain pain pain, my eyes. But even as I turned away and blinked like mad, I felt something. A tingling sensation, racing along my arm. "Nox." The light goes out and the tingling retreats, but I follow it to somewhere near my diaphragm. I close my eyes, and start casting, searching anew for the sensation of my magic. "Lumos." "Nox." "Lumos." "Nox."

Holy crap! This is real! I am casting real honest-to-goodness magic – I can feel it in my body, in my bones! This is so cool!

Holy shit. This is real. I am living in a world of magic, a world populated by horrors I cannot even begin to fathom, a world of petty tyrants and rampaging psychopaths and soul-sucking creatures of the deep. I am so screwed.

Okay. I can do this. First things first, I need more information. I recall that I have a small library, though I'm convinced that anything this ponce owns would likely be less than useless. After all, I'm Gilderoy Lockhart, professional fraud. But it's still better than nothing. So I go to the door, throw it open, and am nearly knocked out by a flood of new memories.

This will take some getting used to.

Memories start returning to me. I own an owl. Nothing too ostentatious, just a golden-feathered Pharaoh Eagle-Owl named Ozymandias. Oh, who am I kidding? That sounds exactly like the sort of thing my predecessor would come up with.

In related news, I also own a house-elf named Glitzy. He may be a better worker than the name would suggest, but I can't help but cringe.

Glitzy has already laid out breakfast for me, and I start eating by reflex, my mind still thoroughly scrambled from all the new information. The memories begin with almost perfect clarity from the previous evening, though they quickly retreat to the miasma of the more distant past.

I have a book signing scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at Flourish and Blotts.

Yesterday evening I wrote a half-dozen responses to fan mail before going to sleep.

That afternoon I had returned from a brief two-day jaunt for a book signing in Killarney, Ireland.

Three weeks ago, I was interviewed and hired by Albus Dumbledore for the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts.

Before that, I had recently returned from a working vacation in Moldova, where I finished my autobiography "Magical Me" and compiled my research for my forthcoming adventure, "Dancing with Dragons." Of course, by 'research,' I mean 'stealing and _obliviating _the memories of everyone involved in the incident.'

I am fluent in over 30 languages, mostly thanks to a ready supply of Language Lozenges supplied via my membership in the Dark Forces Defense League. After all, you can't fight dark creatures in obscure villages if you can't talk with the natives. Or at least, that'd be a solid rationale if I were to ever actually fight a dark creature. But I digress.

I was muggle-born, raised by a single mother of tight skirts and loose morals, who told me that my father was a notable celebrity and couldn't be bothered to support his family. Once I grew up I realized that my mother probably didn't even know who the father was. But as a child, it reinforced my desire to be a celebrity too, to do whatever it took to get my daddy's attention.

Upon my entry into Hogwarts, I was sorted into Ravenclaw (narrowly convincing the Hat not to place me in Slytherin), but lacked the determination and work ethic to compete with the rest of my House in academics.

I fell behind in my studies, but found I could still attain some measure of fame by joining the Quidditch Team as a Seeker. My reflexes were quite good, and I became quite popular among my fellow 'Claws. Unfortunately, either there weren't any openings for Seekers when I graduated, or I just wasn't good enough to go professional.

I floundered a bit, then through the aid of a Housemate found myself a position as a low-level Oblivator for the British Ministry of Magic.

Suddenly I had my inspiration. The power behind these simple charms was staggering, beyond my comprehension. I could make these poor muggles forget anything, believe anything! In this sphere, I could be a god among mortals!

Quickly my plans fell into place. I studied with more determination than I had ever before displayed, rising through the ranks as my qualifications became apparent. I began my own independent research into memory charms, anonymously corresponding with Charms Masters around the country to learn their insights into this particular branch of magical lore.

Around the same time I began to expand my own network of contacts under my own name, keeping in touch with Housemates and other acquaintances (no real friends among them) as they ascended the ladder of their own career paths. I requested international assignments, and made a name for myself in foreign ministries.

Finally my break came. A friend in the Irish Ministry of Magic forwarded reports of a rogue Banshee somewhere in the south of Ireland. I quickly filed for paid leave in my department, and was on the scent.

From the location of prior victims, I extrapolated the trail of fatalities to the town of Bandon, where I started to search for my quarry. I wasn't seeking the banshee. Rather, I sought someone else to take on the banshee for me.

Finally, I found her: a truly hideous witch, with no hygiene, peach fuzz and a harelip, living on the outskirts of town. She had no family, no friends to speak of, a few puffskeins for company and not even a kneazle to get in my way. She was perfect.

I introduced myself, was invited in for tea, and got to work on her mind. I gave her loyalty and trust compulsions keyed to me, enhanced her memories of various useful subjects to aid her in her adventures, and sent her on her way with food, water, and a massive compulsion to subdue that banshee.

I spent a comfortable week in her house, periodically checking into the village pub to spread word of my search and to keep my ears open in case she was sighted in any way that would lend her credit for taking down my banshee. Fortunately for me, that never happened.

A week later, she returned in triumph. After determining the basics of the story (where she found it, how she defeated it, and where it was being kept), I removed the compulsions and memory enhancements, extracted her memories for later review (I had purchased a pensieve at great expense), and then obliviated and replaced her adventures with an otherwise uneventful week spent quietly at home.

I thanked her for the tea, left the house, found the banshee, and brought it to the Ministry for my reward.

It turns out defeating a banshee that had carved a swath out of magical settlements in southern Ireland was pretty much a certain guarantee of instant celebrity. I was a hero, beloved by all. One month later, my adventures were published in "Break with a Banshee," and my path to glory was secured.

Later adventures followed a similar pattern. I even had a few lucky breaks where a dark creature was vanquished by an anonymous patsy, whom I tracked down and obliviated to take credit myself. There were a few false starts, occasions where I successfully extracted the memory but could not take credit as the true story had already circulated. After all, I didn't want to compromise my streak of successes. And the memories were useful for review.

I also made of habit of visiting the elderly, ostensibly to pay my respects to heroes in their decline but really to extract their memories before they faded entirely, for my later perusal and possible publication. I pulled the same trick in muggle retirement homes, searching for celebrities whose experiences might guide my own path. I also pulled the minds of a few accomplished musicians – nothing quite compares to the feeling of witnessing great music in the privacy of one's own pensieve. And if I accelerated their inevitable mental decline, who's to say?

Good God, my predecessor was despicable! Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done. Most of his victims had already passed away, and any attempt to return those stolen memories to the survivors would soon land me in Azkaban. And what little I knew of that prison fortress, I definitely wasn't in the mood to chance it.

So, where did that leave me? Last night I was an American college graduate with an inordinate fondness for Harry Potter fan fiction. Now I'm a celebrity in a world filled with unimaginable dangers, and I have the luxury of knowing this world's probable future without my interference. J.K. Rowling's plot holes might annoy me to no end, but for now, she's basically my own private Delphic Oracle.

Is this a delusion, some sort of grand psychotic break? It feels real, down to the fibers in the wood, the smells in the air, the feel of muscles that I did not have before - the stuff I would never have consciously considered.

If this is a product of my fractured mind, it's an awfully impressive one. Top marks!

Even if it were a delusion, I'm still the one living it. If I learned anything from watching 'The Matrix,' it's that dying here might easily mean dying in my real body too. And there's a whole wide world out my door, just waiting to chew me up and spit me out.

Let's get to work.

A quick glance at yesterday's "Daily Prophet" shows me that it was August 3rd, 1992, which puts me squarely at the beginning of Harry Potter's second year at Hogwarts. Tomorrow will be the book signing and – damn, that doesn't give me much time.

First things first. The single most terrifying aspect of the Harry Potter universe, to my mind at least, is the prospect of mind and memory modification. We are defined by our memories: our past experiences, and how we response and deal with them, determines our personality and identity. The ability to change that, the core of who we are, is perhaps more dangerous than any of the Unforgiveables. The Imperius may take over your mind for a limited time, the Cruciatus may torture, the Killing Curse may end your life: but mind magic has the potential to not only end your life but to replace it entirely. Just yesterday this body belonged to Gilderoy Lockhart, and today I inhabit his place. Tomorrow, who knows: I might be oblivated or compulsed or replaced entirely.

That is, not incidentally, one of the things that drove me nuts about Rowling's series. In a world where there is an ever-present danger that some stranger or enemy could change the very nature of who you are, why isn't there a more concerted effort at providing a defense against it? The Imperius may be unblockable, but that doesn't make it irresistible, as Harry showed in his Fourth Year class with Moody. What of the other forms of mind magic – are they unblockable too? If not, why aren't there amulets sold at every street corner; why isn't Occlumency a required subject; why isn't there some sort of universal resource for people to defend themselves?

Fortunately, my predecessor was well versed in all manner of mind magic and memory charms. Granted, he was an unscrupulous bastard who I wouldn't hesitate to condemn to the Veil, but his experiences and research would serve me well.

I quickly scratched out of a list of various subjects I would need to study in order to prepare myself for the upcoming year – I'd say years, but that's assuming I survive the DADA curse. First on my list were books on Occlumency and Legilimency. I have rudimentary shields, but I know both Dumbledore and Snape are avid practitioners, and I'm not comfortable with either of them perusing my memories at will.

After some consideration, I realized that the next item on my list was a genuine necessity: books on magical customs, traditions, and law.

Rowling's series presents a world that inclines towards the culture of the late Renaissance/early Enlightenment period. Sometimes the political structure seems reasonably democratic – there are elections for Minister of Magic, for instance – while at other times it seems positively tyrannical – witness the illegal imprisonment of Sirius Black, not to mention the summary execution of Barty Crouch Jr. at the end of "Goblet of Fire."

In order to survive this world, I have to understand this world, and Rowling never covers many specifics.

Most fan fictions tend to present the Wizarding World as a fairly aristocratic society, and there is some evidence to support that. The Black family tree is titled "The Ancient and Noble House of Black," while the Malfoys act for all the world like _nouveau riche_: not yet ascended to the true upper class, but more than willing to throw their money around. There are some indicators that the Potter family belongs to the same upper crust: Harry Potter's grandmother was born to the House of Black, and the series does state that the Potters descended from the prestigious Peverell family (via inheritance of the Invisibility Cloak). And that's not to mention the tantalizing hints of a Gryffindor connection: Harry's ability to wield the long-lost Sword of Gryffindor does seem rather noteworthy, all things considered. But these are the merest hints, and to survive and save the world I have to be able to navigate it.

Good grief. This world was terrifying enough just for all the potential misuses of mind magic. Add to that the list of Class XXXXX Magical Creatures (four of which will be found at Hogwarts over the next three years), the existence of a sleeper terrorist cell dedicated to the principles of bigotry and ethnic cleansing, and the ever-expanding powers of a tyrannical government, and what do you have? I, along with every other member of Magical Britain, seem to be ideally situated to execute a maneuver airlines like to call a CFIT: controlled flight into terrain.

Is there any aspect of this that should give me hope?

Right. Stay positive. I basically have a seer in my corner feeding me future knowledge, an broad vocabulary of memory charms (which will come in handy, thank you very much), an extensive muggle education (common sense is so underrated), a celebrity appeal that spans Europe, and of course the ever-expanding bank account of a best-selling author at the height of his popularity.

I quickly scanned my memory and added a few advanced books on Defense, Charms, and Potions, passed the list to Glitzy along with a money pouch and watched him pop away. The rest of my books and supplies I would need to secure by myself.

I turned my attention to other matters, primarily revising all those subjects that Lockhart had forgotten while securing his celebrity. I wrote formal and fairly simpering notes to Minerva McGonagall, Filius Flitwick, and my old Potions instructor Horace Slughorn, informing them of my recent appointment as the new DADA instructor at Hogwarts. Despite my many successes in fighting Dark Creatures across Europe, I sadly lacked anywhere near the same level of experience in teaching my subject, and would greatly appreciate any pointers they might provide. In fact, (I went on), I might be so bold as to suggest a more radical solution. I have secured a pensieve, which I used to review my various encounters with dark creatures, both to prepare myself for future confrontations as well as accurately prepare my account for publication. I realize it was an extraordinary request, but if they would be willing to part with copies of their memories of their teaching years, I might peruse those memories at my leisure and learn according, from an infinitely more valuable resource than any list of suggestions and tips. Any seven-year stretch would do, though I would likely gain the most from observing them work with their favorite group of students. My sincerest thanks for your timely assistance, Gilderoy Lockhart.

Signing each letter in turn, I handed them to Ozymandias, who promptly launched himself from his perch and took off through the open window.

While I waited for Glitzy's return, I turned my attention inward. Though I still defined myself as not-Lockhart, I now possessed his entire set of memories, not to mention his physical reflexes and instincts. Now was the time to consolidate.

The beauty and horror of memory charms is that they are not an all-or-nothing proposition: they need not be as obvious and detectable as the blank stare of an Imperius victim would suggest. Subtle changes to personality are entirely possible, making this attempt at self-directed brain surgery a risky but feasible option. I practice a few times on the table to ensure that I retained the knowledge and muscle memory for it, and dove in.

The first thing I went to root out were any of the former Mr. Lockhart's unpleasant habits, especially any hint of deviancy. While Rowling was content to let the matter slide, I confess myself absolutely horrified by the prospect that Lockhart – a man with no morals and a mastery of memory modification – was ever allowed to be alone in the same room as any underage child. While I did detect some slight attraction to prepubescent girls, such thoughts were never acted upon. Lockhart was evidently content to poach from his readily seducible fan club. Even so, it made me more than a little queasy, so I worked quickly to utterly eradicate that element of his mind.

I also decided to marginalize Lockhart's childhood and retain my own as the base. He didn't have any knowledge of magic until after the age of 11, and I vastly preferred my stable home to his broken one. I did enhance a few useful memories – focusing on accidental magic, random self-preservation skills, and trivial knowledge of British history and culture.

I kept his seven years at Hogwarts, though I primarily focused on enhancing the useful classes and social connections that he kept in future years, while letting other non-essential memories fade out. I decided against messing with my own mind too much, opting instead to compress those Hogwarts years and fit them wherever my original memories had faded. I kept my college education –even if the subject matter wouldn't be immediately useful, the study skills would more than compensate. I tried to balance Lockhart's early career memories with my own – my experience as a tutor would be useful at Hogwarts, while I needed his knowledge of mind magic.

Having completed the personal history, I got to work on personality.

Lockhart might have been an effete poseur, but he remained extraordinary talented in several respects. For one, he was a consummate celebrity, who understood and managed his fame very ably. He was also an exceptional writer and publicist, which would come in handy for herding the sheep that was the majority of the British Wizarding World. He was a decent flyer and possessed excellent reflexes – spot-obliviations were a occasional necessity in his line of work. Despite his narcissistic tendencies he was a natural extrovert who got along quite well with all manner of people, and despite his general laziness he could be a gifted researcher when he put his mind to it.

That said, he very rarely put his mind to it, his narcissistic tendencies did often overshadow his native charm, and he was on the whole an amoral bastard who did not hesitate to tear apart someone else's life to serve his own selfish purposes.

A few memory charms later and voila! A much more moral, magical me.

The other great resource at my command was Lockhart's extensive collection of pensieve memories, which were only surpassed by the collection belonging to Dumbledore. With my sure-handed use of memory charms, these would add nicely to my magical education without endangering my sense of self. After all, pensieve memories were observed from a third-person perspective.

The first step was to see the time differential between the pensieve world and the real world. I set the pensieve on the table, extracted a random memory, set a clock beside me and dove in. The memory itself was hardly noteworthy – I was mostly focused on keeping track of time. Since I couldn't guarantee that my pocket watch would work in the same way, I simply counted the seconds aloud. After twelve minutes, the numbers started to jumble together, and I exited the pensive. A quick glance at the clock and I discovered that roughly one minute fifteen seconds had elapsed. Accounting for observational error, I would guess that the real time proceeded at roughly one tenth the rate of time inside the pensieve.

I manfully resisted the urge to chortle. This just might work.

I quickly made my way to an unused room and got an assembly line going. Most encounters with Dark Creatures necessitated an extensive use of battle magic, so those memories would actually provide a fairly comprehensive review of the necessary defensive skills, and would gradually desensitize me to the life-endangering perils of Rowling's universe. After each memory, I would enhance any prior memories I had of the magic I had just observed, then casted it against walls or conjured targets. After several hours I was getting fairly proficient, and decided to break for lunch.

By this time Glitzy had returned with my purchases and receipts. The books on Occlumency cost a pretty penny, but they were certainly worth it. Combining my own native talent for speed reading (I average 150 pages or about 70,000 words per hour) and Lockhart's gift for memory enhancement, and I quickly set myself to devouring food for mind and body alike.

I began with books on magical traditions, as Occlumency would require a more practical approach. I began with various "welcome to the wizarding world" pamphlets written for first year muggleborn students, polished those off in a half-hour, then promptly turned a larger tract on the Ministry of Magic, intended for students pursuing a career in government work.

Finally, some concrete information on the wizarding government! It turns out that the Ministry of Magic is merely the executive or administrative arm of the government, while the legislative and judicial functions are embodied in the Wizengamot. This body was a hybrid of the muggle Parliament, balancing a certain number of seats for the Ancient and Noble families (their House of Lords) while the remainder was elected out of various districts (the House of Commons). The system seemed on the surface fairly balanced. However, I soon discovered that the entry requirements for the elected seats involved possessing a great deal of wealth, mostly in the form of a landed estate. Thus, both aisles of the Wizengamot were occupied by the moneyed elites, most of whom supported a bigoted pureblood agenda.

As I recalled from the series, the Wizengamot was presided over by the Chief Warlock, Albus Dumbledore, whose seat and whose support were firmly tied to the Ancient and Noble families. The 'loyal opposition' was led by Lucius Malfoy, who (I was stunned to discover) actually occupied an elected seat among the districts.

I suppose this explains Fudge's behavior throughout the books. Given that Malfoy and Dumbledore were political rivals, it wouldn't make much sense for him to constantly seek advice from both of them. But as political rivals for whom power was in continual precarious balance, Fudge was practically forced to find that balance again and again to retain his position. I would presume that Fudge privately supported Malfoy's agenda (and thus sought any opportunity to undermine Dumbledore), but lacked the support to openly oppose Dumbledore's agenda.

And what was Dumbledore's agenda? Frankly, that confused me more than anything else. On the one hand, he publicly supported Arthur Weasley's Muggle Protection Act, but that was a limited measure to address muggle baiting via magical artifacts. Most of Dumbledore's coalition came from the Old Guard , the noble houses who supported a Traditional agenda (though not the radicalized Blood Purity agenda of Malfoy and his ilk). True advocates of genuine muggleborn equality were few and far between.

I further discovered that the Wizengamot only rarely met as a whole, reserving that distinction for newsworthy pieces of legislation and judicial proceedings. For the most part, the business of governance was administered by small working groups, which were granted near-autonomous power. I'd guess that most of Fudge's future usurpations of power in the books, along with Umbridge's reign of terror at Hogwarts, were technically legal by way of a controlling majority on those working groups.

I found this problematic. My initial plan was to protect Harry and defeat Voldemort by a combination of magical awesomeness and Rowling-based prescience. The problem was, if the very foundations of the society have failed, then saving it would not be as simple as defeating a single terrorist or organization. No, it looked like I might have to involve myself in politics after all.

Having finished the meal, I turned to the book on Occlumency. I decided to first skim through it to get some basic understanding of the process, then knuckle down for the step-by-step.

It turns out there are two forms of Occlumency. The first is a straightforward barrier against external penetration. This is the most common and most vulnerable method. Though it may keep out foreign minds, it broadcasts your ability to sustain a mental defense, and if an enemy Legilimencer overpowers those initial defenses, the rest of your mind is susceptible to attack.

The second method is both rare and (by all accounts) insanely difficult: you must construct a separate 'mindscape' that will divert attention away from your true self. This second mind may have porous or solid external barriers, but it must be sufficiently complex to convince another Legilimencer that it is genuine. The issues with this approach are manifold, but mainly boil down to a single nigh-insurmountable obstacle: constructing the secondary mindscape.

The book detailed two ways to overcome this obstacle. The first entailed a coordinated long-term effort to create the desired mindscape; the second basically requires a complete psychotic break. Naturally, neither of those appeals to me.

Fortunately, my situation apparently qualifies as a viable third option. After all, I already have two complete sets of memories (not to mention my compiled personality) out of which to construct my false mind.

Buckling down, I was surprised to discover that the first step towards this advanced mental defense strategy involves attuning my mind to my own magical core. Now, I imagine this step would take considerable time and effort for someone who was born with magic and didn't know what to look for. But until last night, I was 100% pure Muggle, so it was laughably easy for me to feel the magic and pinpoint my core.

The next step was to immerse my sense of self within that core, a process which reminded me vaguely of meditation or 'mindfulness' exercises. From there, I allowed my mind to settle, then began to slowly sift through the elements of my personality.

Reading ahead, I had learned that the goal of this exercise was to copy and collect those elements in order to gradually form my desired 'false mind,' which would then be tethered by magic to my physical body, specifically the area just beyond my eyes. This would ensure that any attacking Legilimencer would first encounter that false mindscape, while my true self was safely tethered elsewhere (the book provided several suggestions, including the heart, the spine, or the brain itself). Now, this was fine as far as it when, but if I could magically tether elements of myself to parts of my body, why not pursue that to its logical conclusion?

The first step was of course to parse out the various elements of me that I wanted to tether. I paid special care to my muscle memory and physical reflexes, which I planned to copy and tether to my individual limbs. My fourteen years of piano lessons were tied to fingers and hands; Lockhart's years of wand waving tied to wrists and elbows; my happy years of childhood sports tied to upper arms and leg muscles; Lockhart's many hours spent posing in front of mirrors (both for portraiture and for formal dueling) were tied to my legs and shoulders.

Having tethered those physical reflexes, I could then immerse myself in the mental elements. The book referred to this as the most exhausting step, but Lockhart's experience at copying and modifying memory, I could do it practically by rote. My faith and moral convictions were (predictably) tied to my heart, my academic pursuits and passions were tied to my brain, and Lockhart's magical experiences tied to my diaphragm (as the closest approximation to my core). Finally, every aspect of this system was linked to my spine, which served as the focal point for my 'true' mindscape even though practically none of my true self was located 'on site.'

I began to feel somewhat faint by the time this process was nearing completion, and I realized it was probably getting on in the evening. At length I emerged from my magical core, enthused by all the progress I had made, and promptly succumbed to complete and total exhaustion.

The last thing I saw as my head plummeted to the side was the plate of cold food that Glitzy had lain out for my dinner some hours before.

And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.

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A/N: Please read and review. This is my first major work, and I could use all the feedback I can get. Also, please note that this is NOT slash, despite the character listing. Hopefully that'll pre-empt a few complaints.


	2. Day Trip to Diagon

Gilding the Son of Lily  
By Publicola

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**Chapter 2: Day Trip to Diagon**

I awoke with a splitting headache, my limbs sore. Why had I spent the night on a wood floor? I lifted myself, grimacing at the pain.

Then the memories returned.

I'd like to think I took it better this time around, but that wasn't really the case. I blame my collapse on the headache. Plus, however disconcerting it was yesterday to find myself in the body of a character I previously thought fictional, it was quite a bit more disturbing to find myself in the same situation for a second day.

Dang it! Either this was the beginning of a long-term delusion, or I'm really stuck here. I'm not sure which is worse.

I wondered idly, if this were real, whether Gilderoy's spirit might not have been transferred to my body the same time I was transferred to his. God, I hope not. That would be awkward, if I ever manage to return. Gilderoy isn't exactly the best sort of person to be co-owning time-shares on my old body.

On the plus side, he's basically powerless without magic, so at least he won't be stealing any more memories. Though, that would also preclude him from dealing with the conflict between two complete sets of memories. So I suppose for the indefinite future my body will be possessed by an amoral scoundrel with a raging case of multiple personalities.

Right. Note to self: the power of positive thinking doesn't seem to help.

Good grief, I'm depressed. My head hurts, I'm lying in a puddle of drool, I haven't eaten since around noon yesterday, and (oh right!) I'm going to be meeting Harry Potter today.

Drearily I called out, "Glitzy." He popped in and almost immediately popped out, squealing "Glitzy will make food for Master!"

I sighed, and called for Glitzy again. He popped back, his arms already mixing a bowl of flour. "Soda bread not ready Master, but fruit be on the table!"

"No, no, Glitzy. Do we have any headache potions?"

Glitzy looked at me oddly, and shuffled his feet. "Potion cupboard has lots of hangover draught. Is that—"

I cut him off. "That would be wonderful, thank you." I'd forgotten how many members of Lockhart's fan club were lushes.

The elf popped away and back with a single vial of some awful-looking gloop. I glared at it distastefully, but threw my head back and downed it in a single motion. Magical hangovers tend to be pretty vicious and so was the cure, but by the time I rose to my feet my headache had gone, my body felt great, and I was really looking forward to the day!

Huh. Evidently the side effects of advanced Occlumency are the same as the side effects of drinking hard liquor all night. Rowling never mentioned that. If I ever get back, we will have words.

But for now, I was up, cheery, and dying for food. Making my way to the kitchen, I cast a quick "Tempus" to find that it's 9:50 in the morning. I knew that I'd start at Flourish & Blotts at 12:30, so that gave me at least a bit of time for shopping.

After eating, I quickly cleaned myself up (though I cut Lockhart's lengthy self-care regimen short by a considerable margin) and dressed in my finest forget-me-not blue robes. I wasn't sure if Ozymandias could take the floo, but I didn't want to chance it, so I tell him to fly to Diagon Alley and meet me around noon.

Finally, all that remains is for me to take the floo. I have Lockhart's memories of it, but this will still be a first for me, and Harry's first try was not one I'd care to duplicate. I practiced saying it a few times, then threw the powder down and very carefully enunciated "Diagon Alley."

It was actually a pretty smooth ride. I imagine magical transportation doesn't interface well with a case of severe stuttering. Poor Harry.

The landing would have been quite graceful too, had I not tripped on an elevated paving stone and sprawled onto the street. Fortunately this seemed to be a common occurrence, as I didn't hear any jeering. So far, so good. I picked myself up and went to brush off my robes, but then froze. Casual gestures like that might give me away. I had magic, and most people would instinctively clean themselves with a wave of the wand.

With a quietly muttered "_Tergeo_," I strode away to the main thoroughfare.

Diagon Alley was precisely as chaotic and colorful as Rowling depicted it. For a second I looked in awe at the simple reality of it, but was soon in danger of being swept away through the crowds.

My first destination was Gringotts. Now, I had read many fics where goblins were warm fuzzy creatures who would fawn over any wizard that greeted them by name, and who offered an almost infinite variety of services. All well and good, but that's fiction, and this was not. What I knew of goblins was the following: they were a race of highly intelligent, highly vindictive beings who dwelt underground, crafted nigh-indestructible weapons, possessed their own form of magic, and were almost universally despised by wizards. Oh, and did I forget to mention that they control the money supply?

Good God, wizards are idiots.

But no matter. I knew goblins respected money, and thanks to my books I had plenty of it. With the addition of my future knowledge, who knew what the future might hold?

Waiting in line, I decided against investing in the muggle world until I could tell how closely Rowling's world paralleled the one that I knew. For instance, in "Order of the Phoenix" we learn that Death Eaters had destroyed the Brockdale Bridge and killed several motorists. In the world I knew, no such bridge exists. Who knows: perhaps Bill Gates is a gas station attendant in this reality, or perhaps he doesn't exist at all. So my future knowledge would remain worthless for investing on the Muggle side (at least for the moment), and besides the Weasley twins I didn't know any magical business to invest in.

No, the point of this trip was not to buy and sell stock, but information.

I hailed the now-available teller cheerily. "Greetings, Gornuk, I am Gilderoy Lockhart, and I'd like to visit my vault." I continued in a lower voice. "I also recently came across some information of great interest to the Goblin Nation, and would ask to speak with the management if at all possible."

Gornuk had already turned to wave down a vault assistant when he heard the second bit. He stared at me intensely for a few seconds, only to continue his original motion. I thought he would ignore me, but as I passed him by he murmured, "I will await your return in conference room D."

The vault ride was less thrilling than I anticipated – there were fewer twists and turns, more light, and a lower speed than Rowling had indicated. I wonder if the carts had special settings for particular clients.

Being Muggleborn, my vault had little to speak of besides coin, though I did retrieve a Foe Glass gifted to me by an elderly witch. (The original Lockhart had discarded it for being too utilitarian for his gaudy tastes). After that, all that remained was to refill my mokeskin money pouch. What, you thought it automatically retrieved money from my vault? For one, I have a hard time believing such magic existed, and if it did, I doubt the goblins would willingly permit such a colossal breach in security. No, the magic of the money pouch consisted entirely of an undetectable extension charm with a theft-resistant mokeskin covering.

I rejoined the dour goblin in the vault cart, and we returned to the surface. When I asked for directions, he pointed me to an unmarked door and turned away. Such service.

All right, game face now.

I strode in, trying to convey both confident and cleverness. Given Lockhart's reputation, I doubt I was successful, but I could at least try. The conference room was not large, and the bulk of the space was occupied by a table with several seats. Gornuk was present, standing in deference to an older goblin that I did not recognize.

I nodded in respect. "Sir, thank you for your time, and forgive my lack of familiarity with your customs. As I told Gornuk, I lately came across information of great interest to your clan and Nation. However, I fear the repercussions of this knowledge may put me in danger. I would ask for your word that you will hold this information confidential, and that it will only be disclosed to other wizards after I give my consent."

The goblin replied in an ominous tone. "And what guarantee do we have, that such a vow would be in our interest? Are we to merely believe that the words of a wizard bear truth?"

I grimaced. Damn, this would be easier without the centuries of pent-up hostility. "I would offer a vow of my own then, that the information I bring is true."

The goblin grunted in contemplation. "That is enough for now. Make your vow, and then shall we."

I wracked my mind for the proper form. Wizards were not Freemasons; we did not swear by "so mote it be." Magic bound us to our word, but any statement of intent would do.

I offered my forearm to the goblin, who grasped it with his own. "I swear on my magic that the information I bring regarding the Goblin Nation is true and accurate, to the best of my knowledge. So swear I."

He gazed at me, before speaking. "I, Ragnok Ironshard, agree to be bound on behalf of my clan to hold the information I receive in confidence, to be shared with no wizard save by the consent of the one who provides it. May I be bound by my word."

Wisps of light faded in and out of view over our joined arms. Lockhart had not been an honorable man, and had sworn no oaths that could be avoided. This was a unique experience, for both of my personas.

The goblin Ragnok released my arm, and I sat heavily in the closest chair. Show time. "Has Gringotts determined the party responsible for last year's attempted break-in on Vault 713?"

Ragnok almost shot to his feet in surprise. His expression took on a sly look, as he settled back into the chair. "No, we have not. Though I don't doubt that you somehow have learned this information?"

I grinned. "Indeed."

The fury in his eyes stunned me. "Then why is it, Wizard, that you did not come forward before now?"

I cried out defensively, "I came at the first chance I had!"

The grin that split his face was hideous. "Pity. If you had lied, you would have lost your magic."

I gulped. Damn, I cannot lose my cool like that. These goblins are so vindictive, they'd chew me up the first chance they had. I suddenly had a lot more respect for Dirk Cresswell, who headed the Goblin Liaison Department at the Ministry. No wonder they had a muggleborn fill the position – no pureblood would be intelligent enough to survive a single conversation with these vindictive bastards.

I breathed deeply before I spoke, picking my words with great care. "As you may know, I recently returned from Moldova. While there I heard the usual rumor and idle gossip. However, there was one piece of information that I recently confirmed. It appears that for several years, the forests of Albania were haunted by a wraith." I leaned forward. "A wraith responding to the name Lord Voldemort."

Gornuk gasped softly, but Ragnok's face remained impassive.

I continued. "I do not know the exact dates, but I believe the wraith appeared shortly after the fall of the former Dark Lord, and reportedly remained until last summer, when it mysteriously disappeared."

I paused. "Tell me, are either of you familiar with the name Quirinius Quirrell?"

I could tell Ragnok had responded to my words, as he forced himself to speak very slowly. "I believe his account with us was recently closed, though we were not given a reason."

"That is because he is dead. Shortly before accepting a position at Hogwarts teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, Quirrell travelled to the forests of Albania, where he encountered the wraith I spoke of. I do not know whether it was by his consent, but the wraith possessed him, and from him learned that Gringotts had stored within its vaults a priceless artifact that would permit his return to life. I am speaking, of course, of the Philosopher's Stone."

I did not expect the response I received, but then, no one ever expects a goblin to collapse in laughter. It was incredibly disconcerting.

Ragnok finally recovered. "You jest! No Wizard would entrust the Stone to our care, when they already resent our control of their money. There is only one Stone, and the Wizard who made it is no friend of the Goblin Nation. No Flamel has been seen in these walls for many centuries. Do you not know your history?"

For several seconds I was stunned, but then I could not hold my laughter. "You mean it was a bluff? The whole thing, a bluff? Oh, that's rich!" I did not remark on how Machiavellian it was – I wanted to get Dumbledore in trouble with Gringotts, and such a remark would only earn their admiration.

At this point Ragnok's face had returned to normalcy, and I struggled to continue. "I'm sorry, it's just… Dumbledore apparently let it be known that the Stone was being kept here, in Vault 713. As you know, it was retrieved by the Gameskeeper Hagrid the very day Quirrell returned to steal it. The fake Stone was then brought to Hogwarts, where it was placed behind various defenses. From what I can heard, at the end of last year, Quirrell attempted to retrieve the Stone and died in the attempt, and the wraith returned to Albania. If I were to guess, I'd say that it was an effort by Dumbledore to draw out the wraith, either to prove its existence or to force it into some sort of confrontation."

Ragnok nodded, his face a strange mixture of understanding and muted rage. "I know from your oath that you have spoken the truth. Yet how did you learn of it, and why were we not informed?"

I shook my head. "I'm sorry, but my sources are confidential. However, I understand that the manner of Quirrell's death is known only to a few, and they assumed that Dumbledore would inform you. I know both he and Potions Master Snape were aware of Quirrell's quest for the Stone throughout the year, so I assume both were aware of his involvement in the break-in as well."

It was then that I noticed Ragnok's fists were almost white, wrapped around the handles of his chair. He spoke through clenched teeth. "He dares… to withhold evidence in a matter of such import? To say nothing of imperiling the younglings in his care. The audacity of that… wizard!" The last word was spat with such vehemence to startle me.

I grinned internally. My hastily constructed plan had met with some success. In the original books, Dumbledore had ridden roughshod over so many people and groups that I had difficulty sympathizing with him. If I could get him in hot water with the goblins, it might throw a wrench in his other plans. By providing this information to the goblins, I (and with luck Harry) might earn some small portion of good will.

"If I may? If my source is correct, than Dumbledore did more than merely imperil the school as a whole. I understand that when Hagrid came to retrieve the false Stone, he was accompanied by a first-year student, and I heard it said that this same student confronted Quirrell and banished the wraith before it could reach the Stone. I would naturally give little credence to such reports, except I heard it said that the student was the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter himself."

That got their attention. Gornuk's eyebrows shot up, and Ragnok's forehead twitched. The elder goblin had impressive self-control. I continued, "Now, if this is true, I suspect a deeper motive may be at play. Perhaps Dumbledore believes that the boy who once defeated the Dark Lord could do so again, and orchestrated an encounter. However, I wonder at such a cavalier disregard for his protégé's safety."

Gornuk grunted affirmatively. "I believe it was assistant Griphook who accompanied Hagrid that day; he would be able to could confirm the Potter child's presence."

Interesting, I idly noted, how the goblins remember Hagrid but not Harry Potter. The kid would be pleased to learn that some races have more important things to occupy them than Boy-Who-Lived sightings.

Ragnok spoke. "This is troubling news indeed. We thank you for this information, Mr. Lockhart." He lifted himself out of the chair, a clear indicator that the meeting was adjourned. I glanced at the time. I was a few minutes after noon – still time before the book signing.

I smiled and extended my hand to him. "Before I go, may I make a suggestion for your most excellent revenge?" The elder goblin nodded. "By all accounts Dumbledore was responsible for the Potter boy's upbringing. But what I learned disturbs me greatly. The Boy-Who-Lived seems almost entirely ignorant of our society. I do not trust Dumbledore, and it seems to me that the clearest way to act against him is to undermine his efforts with Potter. This would neither violate the confidentiality of this meeting, nor show your full hand against Dumbledore's schemes. But I leave it in your hands."

I paused before turning out the door. "Incidentally, what is Gringott's policy regarding the storage of cursed items in personal vaults?"

Ragnok bit back a swift retort. "If you think—! No. The practice is… strongly discouraged. Is it your wish…?"

I almost laughed. "Oh, heavens no! I merely wished to know." I almost said 'for curiosity's sake,' but I caught myself before the lie. "From the same source I learned that several individuals have acted against Gringott's in this manner. However, I do not wish to accuse anyone without gathering further evidence. Shall I inform you when I have done so?"

The goblin looked at me oddly. "Please, do." He paused. "You are a strange wizard, Mr. Lockhart. It is not often we find ourselves indebted to one such as yourself." He grimaced. "It is a most… unpleasant experience."

He nodded briskly, I bowed my head, and we parted ways. I chuckled inwardly. That went better than expected.

I emerged from the bank into the glare of the midday soon. It was mere moments later, however, that my eyes were shaded by the descending wings of Ozymandias. I let him land on my arm, and greeted him warmly as I wormed my way through the milling crowds to the bookstore.

A gaggle of ladies – women of questionable virtue, crones, schoolgirls, mothers and daughters alike – had already gathered and were pushing to catch sight of the illustrious Gilderoy. Mr. Flourish (the son of the original owner) was looking particularly haggard, trying to corral the group away from blocking the entry to his shop.

I must say, I was never more violated, nor more ashamed to be Mr. Lockhart, than in that moment. He lived for such things. He enjoyed such things! The tugging, pinching, prodding, rubbing – the sheer physicality of his celebrity life was never more apparent to me. I tried to keep the look of disgust off my face, but it was a near thing.

Finally, I was safely seated behind the table of my wares, Ozymandias perched behind me. I got into a rhythm of selling, signing, simpering, and shaking hands. A photographer from the Daily Prophet (his name was Bozo? Seriously?) danced around, snapping pictures and filling the shop with clouds of purple smoke. Colorful, but still obnoxious.

I attached faces to names, a few of which I recognized from the books. There was Mrs. Gladys Gudgeon ("Your number one fan!" she preened and I didn't doubt it. From the books, she was the only fan to keep writing after Lockhart's mind turned to mush). There was Mrs. Smethley, whose letter would be on the pile my first week at Hogwarts. I even caught sight of Rolanda Hooch, my old Flying instructor.

Oddly restrained in a crowd of madness, I met Mrs. Abbot and Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, who pointed to Hannah and Justin shopping elsewhere in the store. I made sure to be particularly polite, both in gratitude for their restraint and in consideration of their children, and invited them to stick around for an announcement. It turns out both Hufflepuff families were avid bibliophiles, so they were still in the area when I first caught of glimpse of the distinctive red hair that heralded a Weasley invasion.

I held out my hands, and for the first time the crowd quieted down, just in time for a girlish squeal outside. "…he's written almost the whole booklist!"

My face burned. I can't believe I forgot. How could I have forgotten Hermione's crush on my character? It took her most of the year to get over it, and that was when I was still an amoral bastard. This will definitely complicate matters.

I took a deep breath, and grinned at the crowds. They didn't need to know about my panic attack. "Ladies and gentlemen, what an extraordinary day! What a perfect occasion to make an announcement I've been sitting on for some time." At this point the line had shifted to a semi-circle around my kiosk, and I caught sight of the messy black hair that I'd been waiting for. "When all these students came in to purchase my new autobiography, they had no idea that they'd be shortly getting much much more than my book, _Magical Me._ Yes, this year, they and all their classmates will in fact be learning from the real magical me. I have great pleasure in announcing that this September I will take the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

Applause broke out all over the store – some polite, but mostly enthusiastic – and I have to say, it felt pretty good. I could understand why Lockhart went for this sort of thing. But it still made me depressed how easily people were deceived by a man who, until yesterday had not a decent bone in his body.

I resumed signing and selling, though this time with the additional distraction of fending off the kind wishes and congratulations from those who had already passed my kiosk by. The Abbotts and Finch-Fletchleys completed their purchases and left the shop, and then it was time for the Weasleys.

You have no idea how unimaginably embarrassing it is to fend off the fawning attention of a middle-aged fan girl when her husband is standing right behind her. I was never much of a fan of Molly in the books, but this was just too much. I brushed her off as politely as I could, and turned my attention to the others. The first faces behind her were the twins. This required careful handling.

"You must be the Weasley twins?"

They nodded.

"I've heard about you. Pranksters, right?"

They grinned.

"Remind me to tell you about the Mauraders sometime."

Their jaws dropped, and their faces took on a look of pleading desperation.

"No, no, not now. I'll be travelling on the Hogwarts Express. Ask me then."

The hook was baited, the fish was caught, and there was no doubt in my mind that I'd made friends for life. I only knew of the Mauraders by reputation – I was a second year when they graduated, and a sixth year when they died and the war ended – but for these two, it was enough.

I was a bit depressed to see the mystified look on Harry's face, though. He had no one to tell him of the past. His father had died, Sirius was illegally imprisoned, and Remus was still nowhere in sight.

I turned to him. "And you must be Harry Potter." He nodded apprehensively, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I gently extended my hand, and he awkwardly shook it. "Thank you. I know you don't remember it, but your parents' defeat of the Dark Lord saved many lives, including mine." It was true. As a muggle-born, even a student, my life had been in constant danger. And while my predecessor hadn't done much with it, I swore to myself to be a better man.

Our quiet moment was naturally interrupted by a blinding flash of light and purple smoke, and I realized that regardless of my changes, he and I would still make the front cover of the _Prophet_. His face burned, and I nearly snarled at the photographer. "Don't you think that's enough? I mean, Merlin, look at all this smoke!"

Bozo scurried about, took a few more quick snapshots, then hurried away. I turned back to Harry, "I'm sorry about that. Most people don't seem to notice, but I can tell you dislike the whole 'Boy-Who-Lived' thing. Maybe I can help you with that when we get to Hogwarts."

His eyes met mine and I saw in him unfathomable depths of gratitude. Perhaps I was out of character, but I wasn't dishonest. I just knew what buttons to push, what motivated him at this point in his life. I promised pranks for the pranksters, and anonymity for the kid who just wants a normal life. Maybe that won't be possible in the long run, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. And maybe this time Harry will have an adult worthy of his trust.

Ron had at this point fled further within the store – most likely feeling a bit jealous at the attention the others' received. Harry frowns, but I don't mind. He's a twelve-year-old child, whose idea of hardship is living with five older brothers. He's immature, but that's the point. He isn't ready to fight for his life, and it's unfair to ask it of it. Harry needs friends who will fight beside him, and that won't be Ron for many years.

As Harry wandered off, I turn to the last member of the Trio: Hermione Granger. Yes, she looks like Emma Watson; yes, Rowling severely underrated her looks; and yes, she will be an absolute knock-out in a few years. But right now, she's 12, and I found myself more than a little disturbed by the look of puppyish adoration in her eyes. She had a celebrity crush before, but I did myself no favors by being so thoughtful towards Harry.

How the hell do I deal with this? If I'm going to help Harry, I'll probably be dealing with her on a regular basis. Fortunately the perverted part of me was euthanized pretty effectively, but you have to realize, I was basically the same age as Emma Watson growing up. Before, I was the one with the celebrity crush. Now it's reversed. And way weirder.

Game plan: be myself and hope she overcomes it on her own. Also, scrub my mind out periodically.

I introduce myself. "Hi, I'm Gilderoy Lockhart, and what's your name?"

Her voice quivered a bit. "Hermione Granger."

"Ah. You're in the same class as Mr. Potter, then?"

She nodded.

"I heard Minerva mention a muggle-born witch entering Second Year who was the brightest in her class – that wouldn't be you, would it?"

She blushed brightly, but nodded.

"Well, then, I must say I'm looking forward to teaching you. Would you like me to sign your book?"

She could hardly look at me as she passed it forward. I looked up towards a pair of adults standing behind her – her parents, no doubt – and we exchanged soft grins at their daughter's obvious crush. Once I finished signing her book, I passed it back then stood to shake hands with Mr. and Mrs. Granger. My curiosity was killing me.

"And you must be her parents. I'm Mr. Lockhart. What are your names?"

Mr. Granger opened his mouth, but before he could answer he was interrupted by loud noises coming from the front of the store.

Damn it!

I rose, "You three can stay here – I'll see what's going on up there."

I strode forward to behold a showdown that wouldn't be out of place at the O.K. Corral. Ron, held back by Harry, was glaring with all his might at a snooty Draco, while Arthur Weasley and Lucius Malfoy stood over their shoulders, like apes posturing for dominance. I stood to the side, feeling conflicted. On the one hand, I wouldn't feel right being a bystander at what would soon be a bar fight. But on the other hand, it was at this moment that Lucius would give Ginny the diary, and that **had** to happen.

So I watched, and waited. The confrontation went down along the same lines as the book. Lucius insults Arthur, Arthur takes it in the chin. Lucius insults Arthur's ability to provide for his family (_vis_-à-_vis _Ginny's used book), Arthur has his own private 'Bruce Banner becomes the Hulk' moment. They brawl, Hagrid arrives to separate them, Lucius returns Ginny's book, and the two go their separate ways.

But my attention was diverted to another tussle. After his father lunged at Lucius, Ron pushed Harry away to tussle with Draco. Harry fell backwards in my direction, and I caught him before he could fall. I was struck dumb, however, at the look in his eyes. It went beyond fear. What I saw was unmitigated terror, and I had a strong suspicion as to why.

I raised my hand to rest on his shoulder, and he flinched away. He expected to be hit. I don't doubt that he thought he'd be blamed for the adults deciding to brawl. In fact, I imagine he thought he **was** to blame for the brawl, that he was somehow responsible for every bad thing that occurred around him.

The books provide a pretty clear picture of Harry Potter's home life. For most of his childhood he lives in a cupboard, and sometimes gets locked in for weeks at a time. His cousin bullies him, and is rewarded for it. He is most often addressed as "boy" or "the freak," and his aunt and uncle withhold meals as a form of punishment.

That's about as clear-cut case of abuse and neglect as you can get. But until that moment I didn't know whether the abuse was physical as well.

I should have guessed. Rowling never comes out and says so, but she paints a pretty bleak picture. Most people wouldn't swear to "stamp" magic "out of him" or talk about how "a good beating would have cured" Harry of his 'freakishness,' unless they had, you know, actually tried to stamp and beat it out of him.

And of course there's the frying pan Petunia swung at him, only a few days ago. She missed, thank God, but the implications are hard to miss.

So there we were, fraudulent celebrity author and abused child savior, standing in near silence as the store around us degenerated into chaos. I didn't do anything besides rest my hand on his shoulder, nor did I say anything as their party left the store.

Damn.

Damn.

Double damn! I didn't get the names of Hermione's parents! I almost laughed at the absurdity of it, but my good humor faded as quickly as it had appeared.

Damn.

Mr. Flourish was already waving his wand to repair the front of the store, as I wandered back to my table. Now what?

In that moment my jaw set and a hard determination entered my eye. I would fix this. I grabbed a piece of parchment and quill, and set down to writing.

_Madame Bones,_

_A situation has come to my attention, and I consider it an urgent matter for yours. It concerns a case of probable child abuse. I am required to remain at Flourish & Blotts until 4:30 this evening, but would ask to meet with you afterwards at your earliest convenience._

_Much obliged,_

_Gilderoy Lockhart_

I folded it and addressed it to "Madame Bones, Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Offering it to Ozymandias, I looked him in the eye to convey the urgency. Yeah, I had a staring contest with an owl. "Oz, this is urgent. Don't let it go until you've brought it to Amelia Bones." A beat later, and he was away.

The crowds pressed on, and I continued to sell and sign and shake almost by rote. Every minute I looked up for a sign of a returning owl, and every minute I was disappointed.

Until.

Almost an hour had elapsed, and Ozymandias returned, a single slip of paper in his talons.

_Mr. Lockhart,_

_You have my attention. 5 o'clock. My office._

_Bones, DMLE._


	3. A Meeting with Amelia

Gilding the Son of Lily  
By Publicola

* * *

**A Meeting with Amelia**

The remaining hours of the book signing flew by, and at last I was free. By that point I had calmed down somewhat. After all, Harry wouldn't have to return to the Dursleys until the following summer. By that point, hopefully he'd never have to return to them again. I had time to kill.

I considered my next moves. During a brief gap in the foot traffic to my kiosk, I had scratched a hasty note for Dirk Cresswell, and sent it ahead with Ozymandias. Sure, he might be a Ministry employee, but I'd already met with the goblins, and they don't get more unscrupulous than that. Who knows but he might end up useful?

I had a half-hour until my meeting with Ms. Bones, and I certainly planned to arrive early. I wasn't sure if she would have a pensieve, so I called to my house-elf.

He popped to me eagerly. "Master asked for Glitzy?"

"Yes. Are elves able to pop inside the Ministry of Magic?"

"Yes, of course, Master. Elves can pop anywhere!"

I was about to respond, before the full meaning of Glitzy's words struck me: elves could go **anywhere**. Ain't that just a kick in the head?

I shook myself. One thing at a time.

"Ah. Thanks. That's… great news. Look, can you return home and make sure my pensieve is ready for use? I may need it for a meeting later. Put any loose memories in the spare vials. I'll call you if I need you to bring it."

Now that was a tidbit I just had to remember for later. It would be too easy to keep the habit of using house elves for errands, when their true potential was literally endless. Who knew when I might need a _deus ex machina_? In this world I don't have the luxury of being the main protagonist, the authorial fiat that lets the hero escape every dastardly trap and vanquish every villain. A well-placed house elf might save my life.

Glitzy popped away and I turned my attention to packing my things.

The sun was low in the sky by the time I emerged from the bookstore. Mr. Flourish thanked me profusely for my time, though he looked visibly relieved at my departure. I was certainly a mixed blessing, bringing both crowds and chaos to his store. I felt like I should apologize to the poor fellow.

I had a half-hour, but there was no chance I'd let myself be late. I made my way to the Leaky Cauldron and greeting the bartender Tom. It's considered rude to apparate in public – I wasn't sure why, but it's apparently common courtesy – so the pub had apparition ports installed in the far corner, far away from the foot traffic.

Destination, determination , deliberation. The last time I had been in the Ministry of Magic was my last day as an Obliviator. But I no longer had clearance to apparate directly to the Ministry atrium, so I made my way to the visitor's entrance. I recalled its description from the series, and scanning my memories found my most recent memory of it: the day I went in for an interview.

Destination, determination, deliberation. By the time I appeared in the derelict alleyway, I felt vaguely like a used tube of toothpaste. I entered the telephone booth and dialed in. It answered in a dulcet female voice.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

"Gilderoy Lockhart. I have an appointment with Amelia Bones."

"Thank you, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes."

Clink, rattle, thunk. A silver badge fell out with the words: "Mr. Lockhart, Date with Ms. Bones."

I hit my forehead on the side of the booth. Seriously? As the booth descended, I wondered whether some godforsaken wizard had decided to make the Visitor's Entrance partially sentient, and in its boredom the machine had gone insane. That would explain its odd sense of humor.

The doors swung open. "Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration."

I sighed. "Isn't it customary to not check out my wand until after the date?" I muttered under my breath as I exited the booth.

"Don't get cute Mr. Lockhart." Behind me, the doors banged closed and the booth rose with an impressive 'whoosh.'

That settled it. The Visitor's Entrance needed therapy.

Because the Ministry is located underground, the normal ordering is reversed: the top floor is Level 1, while the Atrium on the main floor is listed as Level 8 (though both the Department of Mysteries and the Wizengamot courtrooms are located beneath it, on levels 9 and 10, respectively).

The Atrium itself was breath-taking, and was much better ventilated than one would expect for an underground complex. However, I found the 'Fountain of Magical Brethren' to be rather unintentionally hilarious. How could the sculptor have possibly visualized such a wretchedly adoring expression on the face of a goblin? It beggared belief.

I made my way to the Security desk to register my wand, and after a second I was through. I made my way through the golden gates to the access lifts. Pausing for a moment, I noticed the directory off to the side.

* * *

_**Welcome to the Ministry of Magic!**_

_Level Ten, Wizengamot Chambers_

_Level Nine, Department of Mysteries_

_Level Eight, Ministry of Magic Atrium_

_Level Seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports_

_Level Six, Department of Magical Transportation_

_Level Five, Department of International Magical Cooperation_

_Level Four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures_

_Level Three, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes_

_Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

_Level One, Minister of Magic and Support Staff_

* * *

I cast a quick 'Tempus' and found that I had time for a quick detour. I entered the nearest lift, which I found empty except for the paper airplanes. I didn't want to imagine how many memos were crowding the air over my head. I got off on Level Four, but before I could find directions to the Goblin Liaison Office I found myself shaking hands with the man I was looking to meet.

"Mr. Lockhart! Good of you to drop by, just got your note, lovely owl, was just stepping out to reply, but can make the time if you're free, a few memos to read, nothing really, hardly worth the paper, can finish them later, whaddya say?"

That was in a single breath, and I was still shaking his hand by the end of it. Dang. I had hoped he wasn't a fan-boy. On the plus side, this would make it easier to win his trust.

"Mr. Cresswell. I'm so glad you received my note. I am actually on my way to see Madame Bones, and was just dropping by to see if we could set aside a time to meet. You're not free this evening, are you?"

His shoulders drooped. "No. Dinner party with the Edgecombes, you see. Most unpleasant family, but damnably well connected." He looked up, alarm in his eyes. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry! Please don't tell anyone."

I laughed. "No worries, I feel this same way about some of my former co-workers. In fact," I motion him closer, "if that's your attitude I imagine we'll get along quite well."

He goggled. I don't think he ever saw himself as someone a celebrity author would confide in.

I smiled confidently. "No matter. Are you free tomorrow, then, or do you need to check your calendar?"

He shook himself. "No, tomorrow's fine. What time is best for you?"

"Say, 10 o'clock?"

"Works for me. I'll put it on the docket."

"As will I. Good evening, Mr. Cresswell."

"And to you, Mr. Lockhart."

I had hardly stepped out of the lift, and returned without further ado. I continued on to Level Two. I had only once visited this level when working as an Obliviator, and that was to give evidence to the Aurors regarding an allegedly botched obliviation. As I recall, I was cleared and was rather offended at the insult to my competence, so my memories of this level were not fond. Besides the Investigation Department, this level also included the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office (Arthur Weasley's group, shunted to a remote cupboard-like office) and Malfada Hopkirk's Improper Use of Magic Office, which operated the underage Trace.

I wonder if they'd tell me how that thing worked. With all the theories in the world of fan fiction, one of them has to be right. It's like the thing with Hermione's parents: sooner or later, I will have answers!

I passed by several sets of double doors before entering through one to the main exhibit: Auror Headquarters. At this point in the day most of the cubicles were empty, though all were marked and I was pleased to attach names to faces.

Closest to the outer doors were the desks for Auror Trainees, and I was pleased to see one marked for Nymphadora Tonks among them. She had apparently made the cut right out of Hogwarts. I did notice that her name plate was heavily scarred and scratched, in a failed effort to make her first name illegible. I smirked. Some things never change.

I recognized a few of the names nearby. Auror Trainee Savage was still at his desk, and I was amused to find him a mild-mannered looking man whose primary concerned seemed to be the mound of paperwork on his desk. Further in I found desks for Trainees Proudfoot and Williamson, though both of them seemed nearer to making the cut to full Auror.

The next row of desks brought me to the desk of John Dawlish. He is described as an excellent Auror, but in the books he mostly serves as the personal flying monkey for various corrupt Ministers, and his string of botched arrests is unmatched: Dumbledore, Hagrid, Augusta Longbottom, even Dirk Cresswell. I wondered at the Ministry's competence if this was the best they had to offer.

Beyond him was an empty cubicle belonging to Kingsley Shacklebolt, then a filled cubicle marked 'Gawain Robards'. Scrimgeour's future deputy was hard at work, and hardly bothered to note my passing.

Finally I was pleased to find that Alastor Moody still had a desk, and that was furthest in. Master Auror indeed. He'd be retiring soon, but at the moment he remained active duty, and I recalled from the books that Tonks was his protégé. Good man. He deserved a better fate than to have his eyeball taken for Umbridge's trophy. I did not doubt that his desk would be booby-trapped to the nines, so I kept far afield.

At last I found myself before the main offices. To the left is marked "Head Auror Rufus Scrimgeour." To the right, was a simple brass bar: "Amelia Bones, Head, DMLE."

Suddenly I was struck by a wave of anxiety. I was about to meet with the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – probably the second most powerful person in the Ministry – and it struck me that I hadn't the foggiest idea why she had agreed to the meeting, rather than pass it off to some underling. However much I'd like to imagine it was simply a matter of celebrity, she didn't strike me as the type to be easily impressed.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I began to dread the thought that someone out there knew Lockhart's secret, and that one day I would pay for his crimes.

I shook myself. I can't let myself panic. I cast "Tempus," and saw that it was 4:56pm. Then I noticed the clock on the wall. Strange how easily we can get used to things that would never before occur to us – like using magic to determine the time, instead of just checking the clock.

Better to be early, I reasoned, and knocked on the door.

On the second knock it swung inward.

I swear, I have never seen so many paper airplanes, not even in the lifts. It was like her office was swarmed by papers vultures, all eyeing her hungrily. How my small note caught her eye, I have no idea, though I imagine I should thank Ozymandias when I return home.

Amelia Bones herself was hard at work, even though most of her co-workers had left. Her face looked drawn, strained by the exertions of a day (though I suppose she should be grateful for small blessings, namely that it wasn't in the middle of a war).

She glanced up and returned her focus to the page in front of her.

"Sit."

I sat.

A minute later she set the paper aside. "Mr. Lockhart. I do not know you except by reputation, but with your reputation, I think it prudent to begin by telling you this." She removed her monocle and fixed me with her stare. "I cannot begin to convey to you the level of shit you will find yourself in if this is a stunt of any kind."

She sighed and began to polish her eyeglass. "However, your note did seem sincere, and your owl was persistent. You have my attention. Proceed."

Credit where credit is due: this lady was seriously intimidating. A drop of sweat had already made its way down the back of my neck. Damn.

I nodded my head. "Thank you for your time. Madame Bones, do you have a pensieve?"

At this, she looked at me more closely. I felt like a bug under a microscope. "Indeed. We keep it in the Investigation Department, though it's only rarely used."

"May we use it, or would you like me to have my elf bring my own?"

Her eyebrows shot up her forehead. I doubt she expected I owned one. They were practically the definition of luxury item. She chewed on her words. "By all means. Call your elf."

"Glitzy!" He appeared. "My pensieve, if you would." He popped away, and I shrugged apologetically. "I found it useful as a writing aid. So much more detail preserved in a memory."

I could be wrong, but I thought I saw a slight smile on her face as Glitzy returned with the silvery rune-inscribed bowl. I carefully extracted the memory and placed it in, before pausing.

"Before we enter, I would like your word that you will not act rashly. I had several hours to consider the event, and even now I find the implications… most disturbing."

A single eyebrow cocked, she reached for the bowl and I joined her.

I began from the moment I first heard the commotion at the front of the story. We were already observing when my memory-self appeared. The memory continued and Amelia clucked disparagingly at the sight of the two wizards brawling, before she noticed where my memory-self was standing and who he was standing with.

"Pause." At her command the image froze. "Rewind. Continue at three-quarter speed." She watched impassively as first insults were volleyed and as Harry was pushed out of the way. Then she noticed the slight flinch, and I saw her jaw drop. "Pause."

She turned to me, her eyes clouded over. "Explain."

"You saw what I did: he flinched. He expected to be beaten." I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "Madame Bones, few people know this, but I was not raised in a happy home. My mother had… well, let's say a number of suitors, and few of them were kind to the little kid running underfoot. A few were… especially violent. I would have the same reaction to them, that Harry Potter did to me. Ma'am," I looked her in the eyes, "I think the Boy-Who-Lived is being abused."

She was about to react, but my last words held her in place. Before she understood it as a case of abuse, but then she remembered who we were talking about.

I continued. "There's more. When I caught him, I felt his frame. The boy was far too thin, probably starved. And the look in his eyes…. Ma'am, a few minutes before this, I said a few nice things when I was signing his book. The way he looked at me, it was as though I'd promised him the throne room in Avalon! He didn't expect it at all. And then, when he was pushed aside during the fight –" I pointed "you see, there, the look in his eyes. That's more than just the expectation that he'll be beaten. No, that look tells me that, in his mind, he **deserves** to be beaten. Merlin, Ms. Bones! I've seen some pretty awful stuff, but this takes the cake."

A few moments passed, then Amelia said tonelessly, "End viewing."

We were back in her office, papers strewn over her desk and hovering overhead. Her face was more drawn than it was before, her cheeks paler, her eyes more clouded. She took a deep breath and seemed to center herself, before waving her wand. Some sort of silvery vapor escaped the tip, before coalescing into the shape of an imperious-looking owl.

Damn, even her Patronus was intimidating. Still, it was the coolest form of magic I'd seen thus far.

She struggled to keep her voice level. "Mr. Lockhart… Gilderoy. I cannot thank you enough for bringing this to my attention."

I tried to break in, "Ms. Bones—"

She pressed on. "Rest assured that we will be investigating this with the full force of this Department. At this time, unless there's anything else, it would be best for you to let us handle it from here." She walked around the desk to lead me outside.

I stood my ground. "Ms. Bones…"

"Amelia, actually. Call me Amelia. Can we keep a copy of the memory?"

I paused. "Thank you, and of course you can." She smiled. "However." She lost her smile. "There is something else."

She glared at me for a few seconds, before her expression fell and she returned to her side of the desk. "Continue."

"Earlier today I had a meeting with the goblins." She looked at my oddly for this non-sequitur beginning. "I brought them information that helped solve a cold case of theirs. Do you recall an attempted break-in last summer?"

She paused, then her fingers flew over the assorted files. "I remember that one—odd case, a break-in to an empty vault. And you say you solved it?"

I smiled good naturedly. "Not me, actually. I merely brought them the information. But that's the problem, because the person who should have didn't." My smile lost its good nature. "Would it surprise you to learn that the Chief Warlock knew the identity of the culprit for most of the year, and not only failed to inform Gringotts, but retained the criminal in his employ?"

At this her monocle dropped, and I'm sure it was only the charms on the glass that kept it from breaking on the floor. I was tempted to smirk. That certainly got her attention.

However, I soon grew serious. "I must ask for the same arrangement I made with the goblins. I will swear that my information is correct, to the best of my knowledge, in exchange for your magical oath that what I say will not leave this office without my consent. I fear that sharing it may put my life in jeopardy."

She took a few moments, but the severity of my words persuaded her to exchange vows.

"Dumbledore let it be known that the Gringotts vault in question contained an exceptionally powerful magical artifact," I took a deep breath, "one that could conceivably be used to return the former Lord Voldemort to life." Her face blanched in horror. "The thief sought the artifact for that very purpose. The day of the break-in, Dumbledore had the object removed from the vault by the Hogwarts gameskeeper Hagrid. It was brought to the school, where it was placed behind various traps and defenses."

I paused, then curiosity overcame me. "Tell me, did your niece ever mention anything about the corridor on the third floor?"

Amelia started at the sudden question, and hastily tried to regain her composure. "No, nothing. No doubt you'll enlighten me?"

"Yes. I'm just curious, since it featured rather heavily in Dumbledore's speech at the Welcoming Feast. You know the one, no magic in the corridors, no Zonko products, no excursions to the Forbidden Forest? Last year he added a new one: 'avoid the third floor corridor unless you wish to die a most painful death.' Given the severity of the warning, I must say I'm surprised no one mentioned it."

I was trying to be glib, but stopped when I saw that Amelia was beginning to panic. I had no idea her composure could be so easily wrecked by concern for her niece. The books never clarified the point, but Lockhart's memories told me that Susan was an orphan, and her aunt Amelia cared after her. I reassured her, "It's all right, your niece is fine, you'll see her when you get home."

Amelia spent a few seconds blinking furiously, but soon turned to glare furiously at me. "Finish your story, and I'll see her sooner."

Good grief, I felt like a heartless wretch. Here I was, spinning my yarn, and forgetting she had the life of her family on the line. "All right, I'll cut it short. The thief was the former Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Quirinius Quirrell."

Amelia looked alert. "I know that name. He disappeared from Hogwarts at the end of term." She paled. "You don't think he succeeded, do you?"

I almost laughed at the leap of logic, but cut off the impulse. "No, he didn't succeed. He died." This news rocked her. "Quirrell made several attempts on the artifact during the year, each of which were thwarted by Dumbledore or by Potions Master Snape, acting on his orders. However, for his attempt at the end of the year, neither Dumbledore nor Snape were present, and it was left to a student to confront Quirrell and prevent the theft. According to my source, Quirrell was killed in this encounter, and the artifact destroyed."

Amelia's mind was obviously reeling, both from the fact that a Professor's death had been covered up, as well as the fact that a student was involved. I soon reclaimed her attention, however, when I said, "Unfortunately, that's not the worst of it."

I could read her face like a book—how could it possibly be worse?

I took another deep breath. "There is a reason I paid such close attention to Harry Potter when I saw him at Flourish & Blotts. According to my source, Harry Potter was the student to confront Quirrell at the end of last year. Not a prefect, not a NEWT student: a First Year. This made me wonder how: how did he even hear of the artifact, let alone go to defend it? My research turned out several facts."

"First, Harry Potter tried to warn his Head of House. He was ignored. My first instinct was to chalk it up to the incompetence of the staff. However, on further consideration, I was no longer so sure." She nodded for me to continue.

"Second, it appears that Dumbledore went missing from the castle shortly before the theft took place, and returned shortly after Harry disappeared to protect the artifact. I don't know how he could have returned so quickly, unless it were deliberate." Amelia nodded again, more hesitantly. She was starting to connect the dots.

"Third, the defenses around the artifact were easily overcome by Harry Potter. Indeed, one might say it was an obstacle course specifically designed for him and his friends. Over Christmas break, it appears that Dumbledore removed the final defense of the artifact in order to give Harry Potter the chance to familiarize himself with it."

"I know little that concerns the remainder of the year, however, the fourth thing I learned is crucial. I learned that Harry Potter's first trip to Diagon Alley was the very day of the Gringott's break-in, and further that he was accompanied by the gameskeeper Hagrid. That is how Harry heard of the artifact; he was there when it was removed!"

"This, incidentally, led me to a much more problematic line of inquiry. That trip was Harry Potter's first time in the Wizarding World. He was by all accounts muggle-raised, and had only learned of magic earlier that very day. Yet despite his ignorance, he was being chaperoned by the gameskeeper. Now, Hagrid may be a kind-hearted man, but I don't think anyone would consider him the best person to introduce a child, much less the Boy-Who-Lived, to the world of magic!" I laughed a bit dismissively. "After all, if you'll recall, Hagrid is himself legally barred from doing magic or owning a wand."

I leaned forward, and she mimicked my movement, a good indicator. "So why was Hagrid given this errand? I believe there were two reasons. First, and don't laugh, but the man cannot keep a secret. It seems that confrontation was staged. Harry was meant to defend the artifact against Quirrell, and that means he had to learn of it. And who better that the good-natured gameskeeper who spills secrets like an over-full cup of ale?"

I took another deep breath before taking the final plunge. "The second reason is what concerns me far more: Hagrid is unerringly loyal to Albus Dumbledore. No, consider it. After the Dark Lord's defeat at Godric's Hollow, Albus Dumbledore took responsibility for Harry Potter's placement and upbringing. As we saw in the pensieve, that upbringing was almost certainly abusive. Eleven years later, it's time to reintroduce Harry to the magical world, and who does Dumbledore send? A man practically guaranteed to praise Dumbledore to the skies. Moreover, he is no sooner reintroduced to the wizarding world then he is given a quest: an object that must be defended from attack. And at the end of year, he is isolated from adult support and sent on ahead, alone, to defend the artifact against an adult wizard seeking the return of the Dark Lord."

For a brief moment I felt like Sherlock Holmes, tying off a particularly satisfying string of deductions to a confounded Watson, or Cyrano de Bergerac skewering his opponent with a clever retort over the din of swords. At the end of the refrain, thrust home.

"The abuse was deliberate, the rescue was planned, the set-up unmistakable. I can only conclude Harry Potter is being groomed, intentionally molded to behave in certain ways, and that this grooming is primarily designed to two ends. First, to ensure that Harry Potter always looks up to Albus Dumbledore, and second, to make Harry Potter see the defeat of Lord Voldemort or his latter-day followers as his responsibility, and his alone. Whatever Dumbledore has planned for him, I'm fairly sure that at this point Harry Potter would follow those plans even unto death."

I let that statement stand on its own, as we sat in silence for a minute. Then Amelia quietly swore. "Shit. You were right. It was worse. This is not a simple case of child abuse. It is hardly simple when the abuse is by all appearances condoned by the highest legal authority in the Ministry!" She nearly spat.

I softly prompted. "You understand that any investigation would have to be entirely covert. An official investigation would be stopped almost as before it could begin. Dumbledore is far too well connected to act against in any direct manner."

Amelia rested her head in her hands, the very picture of mental exhaustion. "So that is it, then? I had to remind myself several times of your magical oath, that you were bound to tell the truth. It's just… I have a hard time believing… I mean, Merlin, he's practically a god among men and you're calling him the devil. It's a little hard to take!"

Her mood swings would have amused me, if the subject matter weren't so serious.

"Yes, I know. But that is our challenge, and we must prepare. We should have a few allies. I don't trust the goblins any more than I'd trust a prison gang, but I understand both groups view child abusers with contempt. They will be feeling particular vindictive, I don't doubt. I am meeting with Dirk Cresswell tomorrow; I'll try to bring him onboard to coordinate with them."

"If there's anyone you trust with this sort of information, feel free to pass it along though with three conditions. First, let me know who you have told, so I know who is in the loop. Second, I'd ask that that you require the same sort of confidentiality oath that I required from you. And third, and this is perhaps the most vital, make sure that everyone in the loop is capable of Occlumency. It does no good to keep a secret if it can be ripped from your head, and Dumbledore is a more than capable Legilimencer."

Amelia nodded dumbly, though I could tell her mind was still actively engaged. It was just her body that wasn't cooperating.

I called Glitzy to take away the pensieve, being careful to first copy the memory within for Amelia's use. I swung out the door, only pausing on the threshold.

"One last thing, Madame Bones. I'm not sure if you receive the _Evening Prophet_, but if not you can read in the paper tomorrow morning. Earlier today I announced that I had taken the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts. I am worried at what is going on inside that castle, and I intend to find out. I imagine you'd like to me to keep you posted?"

I almost laughed at the eagerness on her face as I turned away. It was good to have something to laugh about, even in the aftermath of such a depressing conversation.

Did I believe everything I said? I'm not sure.

I honestly don't know if Dumbledore intended to set up the confrontation for Harry at the end of First Year. However, it makes sense of the facts, and even Harry himself thought it plausible. Regardless, it got Dumbledore in trouble, and that's good enough for me. The way I read it, Dumbledore put Harry in an abusive home, and as near as I can tell, Dumbledore did so knowingly. Whatever his reasons, that fact alone would be sufficient cause for me to make Dumbledore's life a living hell.

Dumbledore wants to set Harry up as a martyr. That ain't gonna happen on my watch. I don't care what it takes, Harry will not be killing himself, even if that means drugging the Dark Lord with a 'Draught of Living Death' I.V. drip until Harry dies of old age.

Huh. Now there's an idea.


	4. Evening and Errands

Gilding the Son of Lily  
By Publicola

* * *

**Evening and Errands**

I returned to my flat expecting a quiet and restful evening.

Alas, it was not to be.

I already knew from the book signing that Lockhart was an insanely popular celebrity in the wizarding world. But I had forgotten his obsession with reading and responding to fan mail, and I found that it had accumulated to impressive size, even after two days.

After being fed by a rather insistent Glitzy, I moved to my writing desk to sort through the post. In the first years of my celebrity, I had purchased a charmed mail box to collect my mail, so I would not be swarmed by owls at all hours of the day. Only Ozymandias was exempt. Immensely useful, but the charms work was a bloody nightmare.

Most of my post was fan mail, and thus utterly unextraordinary. Though why Gladys Gudgeon felt the need to write me both before and after my appearance at Flourish & Botts, I would never understand.

Not all of my mail was uninteresting.

Horace Slughorn, true to form, had parleyed my request for his memories into an invitation to join him for a dinner party the following week. Ah, the Slug Club. I should have known I would not get away so easily. I doubt Slughorn expected the unmotivated Quidditch-mad Lockhart would ever add up to anything. His sudden ascent to celebrity must have come as quite a shock, and he must have sought an opportunity to draw him in ever since.

I hastened to write out a grateful acceptance of his invitation. Joining the Slug Club could easily work to my advantage. With luck I might gain not only his memories, but a network of invaluable allies as well. After all, Slughorn was a known commodity.

On that note, I called Glitzy to add crystallized pineapple to my shopping list.

McGonagall's letter was more circumspect. She politely congratulated me on my appointment, along with her regrets: she did not feel entirely comfortable offering her private memories for the perusal of a virtual stranger. It was an entirely reasonable point, especially considering who I was. Minerva had been most unimpressed by Lockhart as a student, and my showboating since that time had done nothing to improve her opinion. She did, however, send an invitation for a discussion of teaching styles over tea.

Again, I wrote out a quick acceptance, suggesting that we meet the day before Slughorn's dinner party. I doubted whether she'd ever be an ally, but who knew but that a collegial relationship might be in the cards?

Flitwick's response was perhaps the most encouraging. He seemed genuinely excited by my proposal, having never heard of such an idea before, and asked if he might be present to observe my progress. He would naturally send along any memories if that were not possible.

I hastened to accept. Flitwick had not been the most approachable Head of House, and in seven years at Hogwarts I had hardly ever interacted with him outside of class. However, he was perhaps the world's leading Charms Master, and I had learned a great deal from him when I was anonymously researching Memory Charms. He had been a delightful correspondent, and his enthusiasm had evidently carried over. I was more eager for this meeting than the other two put together.

Before it grew too late I decided to compose a few letters of my own.

The first was addressed jointly to Mrs. Abbott and Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, the two parents I had met at Flourish & Botts. I pointed out that relatively few parents had the opportunity to interact with their children or teachers during the term. I suggested that if they were to organize meetings for the mothers of Hogwarts students, I would be willing to drop by and perhaps bring along other teachers, and offer what updates I could.

I must confess, I considered this one of my more brilliant schemes. Hufflepuff is the house of loyalty and hard work – who better to organize the first-ever Hogwarts PTA?

And consider the benefits to myself!

First, representing myself as a champion of Hogwarts mothers would preserve and extend my popularity among working mothers. I could slowly incorporate them into my network of allies, if given half a chance. Second, such a group would go a long way in addressing and publicizing the atrocious lack of safety from the original timeline. Third, I could use such meetings to champion education reform, which would subtly align me against Dumbledore. That would, in turn, improve my popularity with Fudge and by extension Malfoy.

No, I hadn't forgotten the damned Blood Purists. However much my attention was fixed for the moment on Dumbledore, I knew Voldemort was waiting just around the corner. But I was not about to show my cards this early in the game, not against someone as powerful as Malfoy.

My objection to Dumbledore wasn't that he was one of those individuals out to destroy society. My objection was that he didn't do anything about those who were. It was a celebrated Muggle who said "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing," but I can't of a more apt description of the British Wizarding World (or epigram for the Harry Potter series) than that quote.

Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard in Britain, if not Europe as a whole. He practically owned Hogwarts, yet did nothing to prevent it from being a breeding ground of Death Eaters. He presided over the Wizengamot, but turned a blind eye to Ministerial corruption. He knew that Voldemort will rise again, and his strategy was to rely on a child.

If Dumbledore wouldn't act, it was time for someone who would.

My plan was to target and gradually marginalize Dumbledore while building up my own influence and network of allies. I would remain publicly neutral until I could acquire a comparable position of power. Even now, I probably had the popularity for public office, but that did not extend to my allies. So I would wait I could bring along key supporters in my ascent, probably after the year was out. I certainly had no intention of hoarding positions of leadership as Dumbledore had done.

I wasn't yet sure how to deal with Dumbledore's base of support among the Old Guard, but I certainly planned to subvert his leadership of the Light. Only then would I be in place to openly oppose Malfoy and his band of petty crooks and terrorists.

Speaking of Malfoy...

I can't believe I'd forgotten. With all my focus on Harry's abuse, I hadn't considered the other reason for sharing that memory. I hadn't even checked the memory to ensure the transfer took place.

I quickly called Glitzy for the pensieve, then dove in without further ado. This time my attention was fixed on Malfoy's movements. Sure enough, after Arthur knocked him into the bookshelf, Malfoy slipped a thin black book from his robes and placed it inside the used Transfiguration book he held.

Armed with this certainty, I left the pensieve and took out a new piece of parchment.

_Madame Bones_

_I am greatly obliged for your time this evening. However, I fear I must try your patience a second time._

My attention wandered for a moment. Wait, did I want to do this? If I told her, she would immediately move to confiscate the diary, and I was not about to trust the Ministry with Voldemort's horcruxes.

On the other hand, this was Amelia. Nothing would prevent me from requiring an ungodly number of secrecy oaths, but I was beginning to suspect she could be trusted.

But before I could tell others about the horcruxes, I needed a plausible excuse to know of them. I wasn't about to invent stories of a side-gig as a part-time necromancer, much less invoke a transdimensional personality shift (already accessorized with fabulous looks and future knowledge!) No, the easiest – and perhaps the only – way was with the diary in hand.

On the other hand, I move on the diary, and there goes my future knowledge for the year.

But what good is future knowledge if I don't do anything with it?

On the other hand, I really wanted to get Dumbledore in hot water this year.

But then, did I really want to let a 1000-year old basilisk loose in the same castle I'd be staying at for the entire year?

What settled it for me was the realization that I just wasn't willing to put Ginny Weasley in danger for anything less than overwhelming necessity. Such nebulous reasons as future knowledge or political advantage was dangerously close to the 'greater good' rubbish I'd learned to associate with Dumbledore.

Heaven help me if I start acting like him.

After a further moment's consideration, I set aside the letter to Ms. Bones and took out two fresh pieces of parchment.

_Mr. Weasley,_

_It was a pleasure meeting you, your wife and family yesterday at Flourish & Botts. I was wondering if I might impinge on your time today to speak with you. I will be meeting Dirk Cresswell this morning; may I drop by your office around noon?_

_Much obliged,_

_Gilderoy Lockhart_

The next letter I addressed to his wife. I was a bit more florid in my compliments, and begged leave to call on her family later that afternoon.

Sure, I was exploiting my status as a celebrity. But I needed an in, and at least I'd be meeting with Mr. Weasley so it wouldn't be misconstrued.

Lastly, before turning in for the night I wrote a form letter response for my fans. Why Lockhart hadn't done so… well, he either loved the attention or was too stupid to think of the obvious solution. Probably both.

The form letter would briefly convey the news of my new post at Hogwarts and my thanks for their support. The bulk, however, were my regrets that I would not be answering as many letters as before, as I wished to devote more of my time preparing for the term ahead. I encouraged them to keep writing, as it was always refreshing to hear from my fans, but that I could not guarantee that I would have time for personalized responses.

I wasn't particularly looking forward to receiving more fan mail, but I figured it'd be a good way to get news from the outside. Plus it wouldn't be so smart to cut off all ties to my fan base, when retaining their support would help propel me into power. Even if the ties are illusory, every little thing counts.

In researching for my book on household charms (most of my fans were housewives, and it had been a popular request) I had come across a spell replicating the effects of a photocopy machine. I hadn't included it, as few of my readers would need such a specialized charm, but I remembered it and put it to good use here.

And so, with periodic murmurs of _Lorem Ipsum_ and judicious use of dicta-quills, my letters were copied, addressed, and ready for sending.

I changed into silk nightclothes and tucked myself in. "Tempus." It was 9:43pm.

* * *

My first stop the next day was in the Alley, to drop off my mail at the Diagon Dispatch. Despite the small storefront, it boasted one of the widest profit margins in the Wizarding World. The Dispatch was a high-volume owlery – a mass mailing service, in other words. Their major clients were the Ministry and the Daily Prophet, but most high-profile wizards had accounts with them. I had given my response to Flitwick to Ozymandias with orders to wait for a response and return to the flat, and I held back the letters for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, but the rest I left with the clerk.

My next stop was Gringotts to exchange my money into Muggle currency.

Good grief! It was bad enough having to deal with knuts, sickles, and galleons, but now I had the added headache of pence, shillings, and pounds. For heaven's sake, I was American! I'm used to working in increments of 10 and 100. Admittedly, every other unit of measure we use may be messed up in the head. But at least our money made sense!

Anyway, my galleons exchanged for a handful of bills and coins, I passed through the Leaky Cauldron and entered Muggle London, calling for a cab to take me to Vauxhall Road. It only took about 10 minutes, though I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. Then I saw it.

It was an old shop, clearly more than a little run down, but the name on the sign was clear and legible: Winstanley's Bookstore and Stationers. This was the store that sold Riddle his diary, and it was here I hoped to buy a duplicate. If push came to shove, I could always use a switching spell.

It's actually rather frightening, just how easy it would be to steal with magic. I'm almost surprised more wizards don't turn to a life of crime. Of course, I'm completely astonished that that they aren't all paranoid schizophrenics, but that's for other reasons entirely.

I asked the man at the front if they carried black diaries, and was shown their selection. I was pleased to find one manufactured in 1953, old enough for the pages to have turned a suitable yellow. I brought it to the front desk and asked to have it embossed.

"T.M. Riddle. It's for a friend, you see."

As I waited, I wandered the other shelves. My usual instincts were to peruse the fiction section, but this would be an invaluable opportunity to learn about this world and how it differed from my own. I picked out a few books on history, both world and recent, along with a few textbooks on physics, chemistry, and mathematics. Most wizards ignore Muggle science, but who knew what might be useful in the end? Grinning to myself, I also purchased two copies of "The Way Things Work" – one for my own reference, the other as a gift for Arthur Weasley.

Anyone can be bought, when you have the right coin.

I paid, picked up the diary and left. Once I found an alley, I called Glitzy to take away my purchases, setting aside the diary and the book for Mr. Weasley. I'd need them later. Then I disapparated to the same lonely street as the day before, and found myself descending into the bowels of the Ministry.

I kept my opinion of the lift voice's sanity to myself.

As I registered my wand, I asked Eric the security desk guy (seriously, did he ever leave?) if he knew how I might get my letter sent to Mr. Weasley while I met with another official. He promised he could take care of it, so I left it with him.

I paid careful attention to the description of each department as I ascended the lift. I was surprised to find no listing for the Department of Magical Education, though I knew it existed, and even Lockhart's memories proved fruitless. I resolved to ask the next chance I got.

My first thought, on reaching Level Four, was to realize just how unbelievably wrong it was that the Goblin Liaison Office was listed under the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Even if the goblins were irredeemable bastards, and they were, they were still a sovereign nation.

Huh. I just had an idea.

Currently, the Department was comprised of three divisions: Beast, Being, and Spirit. The Spirit division was mostly off-site: as they were responsible for overseeing the dementor population, they mainly worked out of Azkaban prison. The bulk of the Department worked in the Beast division, which included everything from pest control (Amos Diggory's office) to the disposal of dangerous creatures (Walden Macnair's).

The Being division was by far the smallest of the three, and was comprised of three working groups. There was an Office for House-Elf Relocation, but they hadn't done much for several decades, as freed house elves would invariably take Dumbledore's offer to work at Hogwarts. There was Werewolf Support Services, but by law the Ministry provided no services besides tracking and registration, and those were both the responsibility of the 'Beast' division. The two members of the staff (both recent muggleborn graduates) were making the best of what they had, but it was a lost cause.

Lastly, there was the Goblin Liaison office, five workers strong. The current head, Cuthbert Mockridge, was well into his thirteenth decade, and was reportedly senile. He passed most of the real work to his deputy, the man with whom I was now meeting: Dirk Cresswell.

The meeting began at a glacial pace. Dirk confirmed that last night's dinner with the Edgecombe's had been unpleasant, and that this morning's memos had been largely not worth the parchment. However, under my interested gaze and penetrating questions, Dirk slowly started to open up.

It turns out that fan writers were partially correct. Though the Goblin Nation did not offer nearly the same array of services as some fics would suggest (Gringotts is not an island resort), the goblins did cover anything and everything related to finance, including legacy services. This meant that somewhere in their archives were wills and inheritance charts for nearly all of the families that kept vaults with them. The bloodline charts were current, as the vault doors took small pricks of blood in order to confirm ownership on each visit. However, the knowledge contained by the charts was property of the Goblin Nation, and few wizards had ever been privileged to see them.

Damn, that would be useful. Okay, time to get on the goblins' good side.

I began to mentioning my thoughts on reaching Level Four: how wrong it felt that goblins were treated as magical creatures to regulate and control. I mentioned the legendary vindictiveness of the goblins, and asked rhetorically how they would respond to such a long-standing disparagement of their honor and independence.

Given that the goblins were both sentient and sovereign, wouldn't it make far more sense to have the Liaison Office in the Department of International Magical Cooperation?

In fact, the work of the Beings division as a whole really didn't mesh with the work done by the rest of the department. Why not propose a more extensive reorganization, bringing the entire division under the aegis of Crouch's department? You could even bring along the famously defunct Centaur Liaison Office. After all, that Office was defunct because the centaurs refused to recognize it, and they refused to recognize it because it was in the Beast division.

The beauty of this plan was three-fold. First, such a sign of respect would go a long way in improving relations with the goblins, and credit would be given to Cresswell and (with a bit of prompting) myself. Second, you could promote Mockridge out of the Office and give him a ceremonial "Coordinator" position until his retirement, at which point Cresswell would be elevated as his natural successor.

Third, Bartemius Crouch Sr. was the current head of International Magical Cooperation, and that meant a lot of things. It meant he'd throw his considerable influence behind the reorganization, as he would seize upon any chance to increase his fiefdom. It meant that we'd have a better chance of working with the goblins, as Crouch had a reputation for brutality from the last war that would impress our goblin allies. And it meant that when Crouch was forced to retire (after the Sirius Black scandal, after the Barty Jr. scandal, take your pick), Cresswell would be poised to succeed him.

Yes, it was one of my better ideas.

Even Cresswell was getting excited by the thought. As a muggleborn, he had fewer prejudices than your ordinary wizard, so he was all in favor of treating sentient magical beings with some semblance of parity. We bounced ideas back and forth for the new reorganization, and discussed whether it would likely be ratified. I suspected it would be. Crouch still had his sphere of influence, and even if that wasn't enough, Dumbledore would likely come out for it as well – he had a reputation for supporting the rights of magical sentient beings.

Around this time a paper airplane entered the room and fell to the desk, and with a glance Cresswell passed it to me. Arthur Weasley had written to confirm our meeting for noon.

"Tempus." I had a little less than an hour left.

Then I turned to my original reason for the meeting, and informed Cresswell that I did not feel safe sharing this information without his oath that he would not share it without my consent.

Looking more than a little cowed at the tone of my voice, he complied.

For the next forty-five minutes, I dumped nearly everything on him: my meeting with the goblins, my memory of the book signing, my conversation with Amelia, and my suspicions of Dumbledore. I didn't confirm Voldemort's existence – relying on the same half-truth as I had given Amelia – but by the end he knew enough to be prepared. I gave him permission to pass along the information to others, with the same three conditions as before: letting me know who is 'in,' requiring the same oaths of confidentiality, and ensuring that everyone involved knows Occlumency. I could tell he had rudimentary shields, but nothing that would survive a direct assault, so I suggested several resources for training himself in Occlumency and advised him to avoid Dumbledore in the meanwhile.

Finally, I encouraged him to seek out the goblins and see what information he could find on Harry Potter. I was especially interested in learning about his parents' will, which (if fan-fic clichés are anything to go by) would take a wrecking ball to Dumbledore's plans. With luck, there might even be something in there about Peter Pettigrew. I made sure to have him contact me straight away if he learned anything new.

At five minutes to twelve we shook hands and went our separate ways – he to pick up lunch (and, presumably, pick up the pieces of his life), and I to the lifts to visit Arthur Weasley.

Instead of turning left out of the lift I turned right, and passed a number of small offices and open areas along the way. The Investigation Department was based in this area, headed by Pius Thicknesse, as were the Hit Wizards, the heavy cavalry of the wizarding world, who worked like SWAT teams. I paused by the space with their lockers, and noticed nameplates for Vance and Podmore, two future members of the Order, alongside a locker for Yaxley, a Death Eater.

Wow. That's gotta be awkward.

Down that corridor was Wizengamot Administrative Services, where Dedalus Diggle worked. I knew that Diggle was Dumbledore's lackey – pretty much everyone did – but I also suspected that Diggle was responsible for keeping Harry's placement with the Dursleys under wraps. It's just a little suspect that Harry could recall seeing Diggle from his childhood.

Sure, multiple sightings of the same random wizard who just happens to be a future member of Dumbledore's militia. That's not coincidence at all.

Finally I found the door to Weasley's department, just as it opened to permit his coworker to walk out. The name tag on his chest said Perkins. I glanced inside.

For an office, it was fairly large. For a shared office, it was somewhat more crowded. For a department, it wasn't fit for Thumbelina. The place was a mess, paperwork strewn everywhere. Every so often there'd be a random noise from one of the many muggle objects on the shelves.

But then I looked at Mr. Weasley, and the look on his face made everything else seem less important. He was practically joyous, and I could tell this wasn't a passing thing. He clearly loved his work, and could care less about the state of his office.

He glanced up from the rubber duck he had been prodding with his wand, and his smile wavered. I was expecting that. It'd be too much to expect a man to greet another with equanimity, when the wife of the first behaves like a little girl with a crush around the second.

He waved me inside and pulled out a sandwich. "You don't mind if I eat, do you?"

"No, not at all. May I?"

"Of course."

"Glitzy!" My elf popped in. "Can you bring me lunch, along with my pensieve, if you could?"

Arthur looked at me with surprise. I explained. "After I returned home from the book signing, I was thinking back on the confrontation between yourself and Mr. Malfoy." My elf reappeared with both items. "I hope you won't take it amiss when I say that I wasn't surprised that you would leap to the defense of your family. However, I did find Mr. Malfoy's behavior more than a little strange. If you consider it, I think you'll agree it was significantly out of character for him to be brawling in public."

Arthur's brow had furrowed in concentration. "It is even more out of character for him to so obviously seek out such a public spectacle, provoking you as he did until you reacted." He nodded speculatively. "I reviewed the memory in my pensieve, and it appears my suspicions were confirmed. You know how to use one?"

He nodded sheepishly. "I have access to the one in the Investigation Department, though I've only used it once."

"Well, then, just follow my lead." I extracted the memory and lead him in.

Again, the memory began while I was still at my table, when I first heard noises from the front of the store. By the time I arrived, both Mr. Weasley and myself were already in place. "Pause. Play at half-speed."

I pointed to Mr. Malfoy. "You'll notice how he picks up a book from your daughter's cauldron immediately before his next insult. I believe this was planned." We watched as memory-Arthur pushed Malfoy back into the bookshelves. "Pay attention. He falls into the shelves and books start to fall around him. Now, there, you see? He takes a book out from his robes and puts it inside your daughter's textbook. Pause. Rewind. Play at half-speed."

This time Arthur could follow along, and his face was rapidly purpling.

"Pause. Play at full speed."

Now we saw the aftermath: Malfoy picking himself up, Hagrid's arrival distancing the two men… and Malfoy contemptuously returning the book to Ginny's cauldron.

Arthur's expression was a strange combination of rage and disbelief. "What was that? What did he give her? Mr. Lockhart, thanks for showing me, but I must be getting home!"

I stopped him before he could get far. "Mr. Weasley! I understand your urgency, but there's more here than you think. Before I go on, I'm going to need your oath that you will not speak a word of what I am about to tell you to anyone without my direct consent."

Geez, this is getting old. But it was necessary, especially for Mr. Weasley – he was far too close to some key players for my comfort.

At first he looked at me as though he could not believe I had the gall to stop him, but he reigned himself in and swore the oath. "I spent quite a bit of time yesterday looking at this memory, and can tell you what the object is. Glitzy!" The sound was like a suction cup. "Bring me the diary I purchased."

Arthur looked skeptical. "Diary?"

"Indeed." Pop. "Thank you, Glitzy. This is a near-exact replica of the object Mr. Malfoy gave to your daughter. What do you notice about it?"

Arthur took it and turned it over. "There's a name, and an address."

"The address is a store in Muggle London. The name is more interesting. Are you familiar with the name Tom Marvolo Riddle?"

He shook his head.

I half expected it, but I was still appalled that Dumbledore never told anyone that Voldemort was a half-blood orphan. It made no sense to keep that information close to the chest!

No one ever accused a wizard of being logical.

Moving on. I went straight for the jugular. "Then you wouldn't know that 'Tom Marvolo Riddle' is an anagram for 'I am Lord Voldemort.'"

His face blanched.

"Yes, it looks like Lucius decided to give your daughter one of Voldemort's old school books. I'm not sure what he expected to come of it. It's clear to me that you and he have some sort of rivalry, and it's clear that he planted it on your daughter to hurt you in some way. I doubt he'd go to all this trouble just to get your daughter caught with an old book – that wouldn't be nearly disruptive enough."

I paused. Now to pile on the half-truths.

"I suspect Malfoy enchanted the object. Since it wasn't triggered in the bookstore or when you returned home, it was probably charmed to take effect gradually, though I suspect there will be an additional defensive trigger keyed to yourself or your family. That is why I asked you to wait – I believe it would be unsafe for you to remove the book. I, however," – and here I gave him my cockiest grin – "have considerable experience with the dark curses, and would be unaffected by such a trigger."

At this Arthur looked considerably relieved. Never mind the fact that my books are entirely concerned with dark creatures, an entirely different specialization. I was famous, and therefore competent.

"I'd ask for your permission to drop by your home this afternoon." He nodded almost reflexively. "I do not wish to alarm your family, so I've written a letter giving another excuse. Once there, a quick switching spell with the replica in your hand, and no one will be the wiser. In fact, I don't mean to impose, but I'd ask that you keep this news to yourself – I'm not sure if your wife would handle it well, and I think it would hurt more than help to make an issue of it."

He nodded, frowning briefly at the mention of his wife. What was that?

"Once I have the book in hand, I'll be able to examine it my leisure. Would you like me to let you know what I find?"

He nodded quickly, almost eagerly. I pulled out the letter for Molly. "Glitzy." My elf popped in. "Please bring this letter to Mrs. Weasley and wait for her response."

The elf popped away, and I turned back to Arthur. "Would you mind if I stayed here while I wait?"

He shook his head, and we turned back to our long-forgotten lunches.

Arthur turned out to be an engaging conversationalist, though I found myself constantly amused by his mispronunciation of Muggle terms. We finished lunch, and as Perkins returned our conversation turned to work. That was when I learned what he had been working on when I first came in.

It turns out he and Perkins had a long-standing argument over the true nature and purpose of the rubber ducky.

You have no idea how hard it was not to laugh.

Perkins was of the opinion that said ducky served as a stylized egg timer, while Arthur believed that it was a decorative piece used for formal dining occasions.

Yeah, no kidding.

It took several minutes to regain my self-control, when every instinct was crying out to burst into maniacal laughter. When I was at last able to speak, I told him very calmly that while it was not widely known, I was in fact muggle-born and had a rubber ducky growing up.

The look on his face made me almost lose control. He was practically bouncing as he asked me what it was used for. I was tempted to keep him waiting, but I finally folded.

"It's a bath toy for kids. It floats in water, and gives kids something to play with while taking a bath."

His expression was somewhere between delight at solving the puzzle, and despair that he had been wrong. Delight won out.

The conversation turned and turned. At last, Glitzy returned and passed on a note. Of _course_ I was welcome to drop by the Burrow _any _time I wanted, and provided the apparition coordinates for a point just outside their wards, on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole.

I nodded to Arthur and took the diary. Before leaving, I turned back. "Incidentally, I purchased the replica from a muggle bookstore. While I was there I picked up a few other books, and there's one I think you might be interested in. Glitzy, can you bring me the other book I gave you?"

A second later he popped back with it. "I imagine you'll get more use out of this than I will. It explains how muggle technology works. Just about any machine you can think of, you'll find it in here."

I left it on the table, the image of Arthur's absolutely ecstatic expression etched in my memory.

Damn do I like making an exit!


	5. Burrow and Books

Gilding the Son of Lily  
By Publicola

* * *

**Burrow and Books**

I made my way to the lifts and then to the Ministry Atrium, passing the security desk on my way to an open fireplace on the right-hand side.

I took a deep breath. Floo-calling would be a... novel experience.

Throwing the Floo powder in, I called "The Burrow!" and stuck my face into the fire.

As my head met the flame, I felt a tugging sensation take hold of my nose, then my face, then my scalp and finally my neck, each feature being stretched on first contact with the Floo then compressed as it was joined by others, until it was only my neck that was strung out like silly putty. My field of vision flew forward until it opened finally on a cozy-looking living space.

"Mrs. Weasley?" I called out, trying to attract attention.

I was successful. Very successful.

Seconds later a sound not unlike a herd of graphorns came thundering down the stairs. A freckly red-haired face came into view, trailed by a rather gangly teenage body. "Hello? Who's there?"

A cocky grin. "Gilderoy Lockhart, m'boy. And you must be Percy?"

"That's me. How can I help you?"

"I sent your mother a note that I'd be dropping by. May I come through?"

He slowly nodded. "That'd explain why she made us drop everything and clean." He suddenly looked mortified. "I… erm, can I… can you wait there while I get her?"

I tried to nod comfortingly. "Of course."

Percy left in haste. A few seconds later, the twins appeared.

"Good afternoon"

"Mr. Lockhart"

"What brings you"

"To our fine establishment?"

Okay, so twin-speak is real. Damn. I always figured it was an exaggeration by fan-fic authors. This would be seriously distracting.

"You have _got_ to tell me how you manage that trick."

They looked at each other and grinned.

"Trade secret.

"We could tell you."

"But then we'd have to Obliviate you"

"And replace it with a memory of one of our prank candies."

They paused, and I struggled to contain my smile, despite feeling a twinge of discomfort at the subject-matter.

"Oh Fred?

"Yes George?"

"One problem."

"What's that?"

"I don't think he'd be convinced without firsthand experience."

"Sweet Circe you're right!"

"So what do we do?"

"Well George, now that you mention it"

"Yes Fred?"

"It just so happens I have one of those candies with me."

I couldn't help it. I gave a short bark of laughter. The twins looked inordinately pleased with themselves. "All right, all right, I give. And to answer your question, I was dropping by for tea. Just waiting for—"

"Mr. Lockhart!"

"—your Mum. And here she is. Mrs. Weasley, how good to see you!"

The Weasley matriarch came into view, as the twins hid smiles and moved away. "Oh Mr. Lockhart, it was so good to get your letter. Of course you can come through."

I smiled. "Very well, see you soon." I withdrew, my field of vision constricting as though being sucked through a straw. Finding myself back in the Atrium, I quickly pulled out the replica diary and tapped it twice, front and back. I wouldn't have time to prepare the switching spell later. That done, I called out "The Burrow!" and stepped again into the flame.

The scene at the Burrow hadn't changed. I shook Molly's extended hand, and accepted her offer of tea. I'd never been a fan of tea, but this was Britain, so my old palate was basically doomed.

We had barely sat down to the table when Ron clambered in from outside. "Oh…" he stopped dead in his tracks. "Hullo Mr. Lockhart. Er… I suppose we'll be calling you Professor now." Molly beamed, and I shifted in my seat. "Uh, I'll be going upstairs then." He dashed up the stairs.

Okay, so that was Ron. I turned back to Mrs. Weasley.

"Mrs. Weasley—"

"Molly."

"—ma'am. I came to ask for a favor." She blushed faintly. "As you know, I'm going to be at Hogwarts this year. It's my first time teaching, and I want to be sure I'm ready." She clucked reassuringly. "I've already approached several other professors for help dealing with the upper years, so I can build on what they've already covered in past years. Where they can't help me, however, is in dealing with the First Years. Specifically those—"

We heard a terrific crash from upstairs.

"Mum!"

I sat back to watch the show. Maybe I wouldn't have to ask Molly to call Ginny down, as she was making pretty good time coming down on her own. Though for such a little girl, she made an impressive ruckus.

Molly had reached the landing by the time her daughter arrived. "Mum, Mum! Ron put Scabbers in my – oh." She suddenly stopped, catching sight of me behind Mrs. Weasley. "Um… I was in the loo and when I got out Scabbers was in my bed but I didn't see him and practically _sat_ on him and Ron was outside laughing and Mummy he was really mean!"

Molly bellowed. "Ron!"

He was already there. "Mum! Whatever she said I didn't do it. I was playing with Scabbers and he escaped and then I heard Ginny scream and then she just hit me! Mum, she hit me!"

I had to keep myself from chuckling. Perhaps I did feel a bit of sympathy with Mrs. Weasley after all.

She took a deep breath. "Ginny?"

Her daughter's expression was an odd mixture between sly and sheepish. "Well, I may have pushed him out of the way."

"Pushed him out of the way?"

"When I was trying to get to the stairs," Ginny nodded.

"And did you, perhaps, push him a little harder than necessary?"

"Maybe?" Now Ginny's expression was entirely sheepish.

"All right." Molly sighed. "Ron, you're going to go de-gnome the garden and Ginny, you're going to go clean the kitchen."

"But Mum!"

"Now!"

It was two very disgruntled children who left the room, and Mrs. Weasley turned apologetically back to me. "I'm so sorry Mr. Lockhart. Children, you understand?"

"Of course." She rejoined me at the table. Suddenly I had a brainstorm. "Scabbers?"

"The family rat. It used to be Percy's, but now Ron takes care of it."

"Really? It must be getting on in years. How old is it?"

She paused in thought. "Well, we've had it since Percy was still an infant. So… maybe twelve years now?"

"Really! How extraordinary!" I paused. "Say, I wonder if Ron would let me take a gander at it. Most rats live three years, four at most. Twelve years… well, I have a friend who's a magical creatures expert who I could ask to take a look, see what he finds."

"Of course." Mrs. Weasley looked oddly pleased. She went to go call her son.

Ron was already grimy with sweat. "Ronald!" I began enthusiastically. "Your mother was just telling me about your pet Scabbers, and I say, it must be quite an extraordinary rat, to have lived so long. I was hoping to have a look at it, and wondered if you'd be willing to part with it. I know it must have sentimental value, so I'd of course be willing to pay extra."

He gaped at me for a second, before nodding eagerly. "Yes, yes of course. Want it for... er, three sickles?"

"Ronald!" His mother began to chide him.

"How about three galleons?" I responded generously.

His eyes widened to marble-size, and he nodded anew, more vigorously. Mrs. Weasley, of course, spoke first. "Oh, Mr. Lockhart, it's too much, we couldn't possibly–"

Ron shot his mother a look of anguished betrayal, but I interrupted before she could finish. "Pish posh. I'm willing to pay, and it should be enough for Ronald here to buy a new pet in Scabbers' place."

Mrs. Weasley was forced to concede the argument, and Ron shot up the stairs to bring down the rat.

"Glitzy!" He popped in. "Please fetch my money pouch and a cage." He vanished and I pulled out my wand to wait. The first to return was the elf, who placed the pouch in my hand and the cage on the table. First things first. I cast my mind back on an old Charms class, and cast a spell to make the cage unbreakable. Let's see him get out of that. Then I opened the latch and waited, counting out three gold coins on the table. Then Ron thundered down the stairs, and thrust the disoriented rat into my hands.

Ew.

"Here he is, Mr. Lock— Professor Lockhart, sir."

"Very good Ronald, and here are your galleons." Very quickly I placed the rat in the cage, closed the door, and cast _Colloportus. _"Glitzy," I whispered as the Weasleys' attention was diverted, "please bring this cage back to my flat, and keep an eye on it—I don't want the rat to escape."

"Glitzy will keep the rat-man as Master says!"

Huh. I wonder if house elves can see through any magical disguise, or just animagus forms. Nifty trick.

I turned back as Molly ordered her son about. "Go put those coins away then back to the garden, young man!" Ron raced out of sight.

We turned back to the tea, as I inwardly crowed in triumph. Pettigrew's ass was mine! I shook my head to remind myself of my primary errand. "Mrs. Weasley—"

"Molly."

"—ma'am. I believe I was about to tell you the real reason I'm here. I've already asked the other teachers for advice on dealing with the older students, but well, they can't help me as much with the First Years, specifically those who grew up with wizarding families. I was muggleborn myself, so I know what to expect out of them, but I have no idea what it to grow up in the Wizarding World from birth, so I'm not sure of the sort of things to teach them."

She clucked reassuringly, then inclined her head for me to go on.

"I understand that your youngest daughter Ginevra will be joining Hogwarts this term. With your permission, I'd like to invite her to join us so I can ask a few questions."

"Of course, of course! Just a moment, I'll call her in."

She rose and moved away, and I soon heard her fussing over Ginny in the kitchen. At last they both emerged and moved towards the table.

"Hullo Mr. – Professor Lockhart, sir."

"And you must be Ginevra, it's a real—"

"Ginny," she piped up.

"Pardon?" I looked towards her mother.

Her face had fallen. "My daughter insists…."

"Ah, I see. Not uncommon, actually, to dislike your given name. I'll keep it in mind for class though. Ginny, not Ginevra." I mimed doffing a cap, and extended my hand in faux formality. "It's a pleasure, ma'am." She giggled and Molly relaxed.

"Moving on. As I was telling your mum, this year will be my first time teaching, and I've been learning as much as I can about the upper year students I'll be teaching. But no one had any help for dealing with First Years, and I was hoping you could help."

Ginny retreated into the chair. "Me?"

"You. You see, unlike me, you grew up in a wizarding family, and while I'm sure you consider it nothing special, I do. I'd very much like to learn the sort of things you pick up, even in the course of everyday life."

"Oh. Makes sense, I 'spose."

"Great! So I'll just ask you a few questions, and we'll go on from there, 'kay?" She nodded. "So, first question… hmm. You got a new wand yesterday?" She nodded again. "Good, good. Have you ever used a wand before?"

She pinked at the abrupt question. Mrs. Weasley piped up, "Of course my Ginny never—"

"Mrs. Weasley, please." I turned back to her daughter. "Ginny?"

Very reluctantly she nodded. "Last summer Bill let me use his wand a few times."

"Really?" I struggled not to laugh at the shock on her mother's face.

"Yeah," she replied sheepishly. "I kinda begged him to."

I almost laughed at the shocked look on her mother's face. "Any particular reason?"

"Well… he used this one hex on the twins one morning after they pranked me. He showed me the wand movements and let me try it. It makes your bogeys fly out and attack you!" she finished proudly.

Oh, good grief. The Bat-Bogey Hex. No wonder it was her specialty. I hastily moved on.

"Okay… so what sort of preparation do you receive for Hogwarts?"

She looked in surprise at her mother, who straightened in her chair before responding. "Well! I wasn't aware this wasn't common knowledge, even among the muggle-born. There is no registered primary school, of course, but most magical families cooperate to prepare our children for Hogwarts. Most of the old pureblood families meet out of a place up north in Argyll and Bute – it's pretty exclusive, so no one else knows precisely where – then there's a family in Ceredigion that takes in the children of half-bloods and working wizards, while most of the families in the West District send our children in a day school in Cornwall. That's where Ginny, and all of our children, went for primary."

Huh. Learn something new every day. "And what did you learn there, Ginny?"

Ginny's answer was long and rambling, but it boiled down to her receiving a fairly typical primary school education, comparable to anything you might find in Muggle England. There were of course a few exceptions, like studying magical history or bring home very different reading material.

"And what sort of books do you read for fun?"

"Oh, that's easy, my favorite was the Boy-Who-Lived series, it's something I read when I was younger, it was just so—erk!"

Oh poor Ginny. Of all the times for Harry Potter to show up, it had to be then. She turned bright red, and squirmed silently in her chair as though to bury herself within it.

As for Harry, poor boy just looked dumbfounded. "You mean to tell me there are _storybooks_ about me?" He said the word with disgust. He was at the stage of life where girls are icky. It couldn't have been easy for him to learn that he was the romantic hero in a series of books read by those very girls.

I wasn't sure how to respond, so I decided to just greet him normally. "Hello Harry, good to see you again."

"Uh…" he shook himself. "Hullo Professor Lockhart. Why're you here?"

"Harry!" Molly warned.

"No, no, it's fine. I was asking Ginny some questions so I'd know how to teach the First Years. I was muggle-born, so I was looking to learn about a normal magical childhood."

Harry at first looked pleased that attention was focused on someone other than him, but his face fell when I talked about a 'normal' childhood. Damn, those Dursleys did a number on him.

"Something wrong, Harry?"

"Nuthin'. I'll just be going outside then?" His voice hitched, but before I could respond had turned away and fled out of doors.

Ginny was still beet-red, but at least there were no butter dishes in sight. Time to drag the conversational train back to its tracks. "So, I guess… besides the Boy-Who-Lived stories, what other sort of books do you read?"

"Erm… well I read a few of your books, they were pretty good—d'ya know Mum has the whole set?—"

"Ginny!"

"And one time I picked up Ron's 'Mad Muggle' comics one time, but I thought they were pretty silly. But really most of what I read were assignments for Hogwarts prep" her voice dropped "besides the Harry Potter books, I mean."

I grunted – and immediately made a mental note to never do it again, it was not a flattering sound the image-conscious Lockhart would indulge in. "Would this be typical of most First Years, do you imagine?"

Ginny paused, "I honesty wouldn't know. Outside of day school, I never saw many girls – my best friend was Luna, but she was home-schooled."

"Luna?"

"Lovegood. Her family lives nearby. They're rather… odd."

"Ah."

"Luna's father prints the _Quibbler_." Mrs. Weasley explained curtly.

"Ahh." She was clearly not a fan of Xenophilius. "And Mrs. Lovegood?"

"Selene died about two years ago in a magical accident." The grief on Mrs. Weasley's face gave way to repressed anger. "Luna's father… he didn't do much to take care of her after that."

"She used to visit, but she only came by once after the funeral, and now I barely see her anymore." Ginny's eyes were cast down; she looked more than a little lost.

I tried to smile encouragingly. "Well, people sometimes push their friends away when they're trying to deal with a loved one's death. I've seen it before. Just keep being her friend, and I'm sure she'll come around."

Ginny met my eyes as Mrs. Weasley's expression lightened. "Thank you Mr. Lockhart."

"Not a problem, Miss Weasley." I shook my head and redirected the conversation. Again. "I only have one last question for you before I leave – really a request. I wonder if you could show me the books you got yesterday for Hogwarts, let me know which one's you've read or seen already, which ones catch your interest, that sort of thing."

"Of course, Mr. Lockhart. Professor. Sorry. My books are still in my cauldron. Mum?"

"Yes dear, it'll be in your room, up you go."

And Ginny raced up the stairs, while I breathed a sigh of relief. Still in the cauldron meant still unpacked, still unpacked meant unopened diary, unopened diary meant I didn't have to replace it with my replica. I immediately tore off a spare page from the replica diary and shifted my wand (still in my sleeve) to tap it on the front and back. I would still use a switching spell, but I would prime it with the paper instead.

She returned, much more slowly this time, carrying the pewter cauldron with her schoolbooks. She started picking out books and putting them on the table, starting with _Magical Drafts and Potions_.

"We read about a few potions in primary, and they had a copy of this in the library, so I've flipped through it. It's dead dull, though. I'll probably read ahead anyway. I'd rather not face Snape in one of his _moods_…."

"Ginny!" Her mother chided.

"What, it's true! Even Percy agrees, and you know how he goes on about respecting authority and all!"

Not even Mrs. Weasley could counter that argument.

Next out of the cauldron was Bathilda Bagshot's _A History of Magic_. I'd forgotten about her. Later in the original timeline she gave Rita Skeeter all kinds of dirt on the then-late Dumbledore. She'd be dead useful as an ally.

Ginny was speaking about it, though. "Merlin, I got so tired of that in primary! We used it all the time, though we only read a paragraph at a time in class." She pulled out Goshawk's _Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ and blushed deeply. "It was never assigned," she answered my unasked question, "but Ron left his copy lying around last summer, so I paged through it and… and… I practiced the wand movements with a twig." She finished very quickly. I hastened to reassure her. Merlin, you'd think for wizards there wouldn't be such a taboo against underage practicing like that.

Moving on, she indicated that Waffling's _Magical Theory_ was also excerpted by the primary school, and was exactly as dreary as it sounded. It also became apparent that the primary school had done a few lessons on potion-making, both safety techniques and ingredient preparation, as they used _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ by Phyllida Spore (no pun there) as a reference work.

Finally, she pulled out _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_. It was a large-ish tome with a bulge in the middle, subtly emphasizing the author's name on the cover. I found this more than a little ironic as I cast the switching spell, for the author was Emeric Switch. I wrestled to contain a single bark of laughter as I felt the weight of an additional diary shift in my robe.

"And of course your books, but Mum keeps them down in the kitchen with her copies." Ginny concluded, to her mother's embarrassment. I could have been wrong, but I thought I saw a mischievous glimmer in her eye as she said it.

"Well," I concluded a bit abruptly, "thank you for being so helpful." I started packing her books back in her cauldron. "That's all the questions I have for you, Miss Weasley, so I'd thank again for your honesty, even if it occasionally got you in trouble." I shot a quick glance-and-back towards her mother. Ginny noticed it and grinned. "And thank you Mrs. Weasley for your hospitality, though I don't dare impinge on it any longer than necessary." Stretching slightly I rose to my feet, and the two Weasley women mirrored my movements. "Well, it's been a pleasure." I bowed slightly to them both and moved towards the door. "Good day!"

"Oh, won't you take the Floo?"

And give up the address to my flat? Not a chance. "No thanks, ma'am. I prefer to apparate, and the walk will be good for me." This was Lockhart's standard policy, unless he were bringing back a conquest, and even then the information was Memory Charmed away. Along with any performance issues – after all, he had his reputation to live up to.

Again, my predecessor was most definitely NOT a nice guy.

Mrs. Weasley ordered Ginny back to work in the kitchen, and escorted me to the door. Shortly after I left the building, the twins came tumbling out the door and fell in step behind me. "Mr. Lockhart!"

"Professor Lockhart."

"Weren't you going to tell us"

"About the Mauraders?"

Oh, the look of hope on their faces was truly delightful. Too bad I was going to be (temporarily) squashing it like a bug. "Didn't I say I'd tell you on the Hogwarts Express?"

Their faces fell in unison.

I decided to throw them a bone. "I can tell you, though, that Harry is related to one of them."

That stopped them in their tracks. It also stopped Harry in his tracks – he had seen the twins and inadvertently overheard the last part of our conversation.

He looked on me almost with a sense of awe. "I have magical relatives? You knew them?" My heart broke anew – this kid was truly desperate for any connection to his parents or past.

I partially knelt in front of him. "Yes I did, but not well and not anymore. I'll tell you about it on the train, okay? Right now I think you should enjoy the time with your friends." I rose, catching the eyes of the twins and nodded seriously. They were good kids; they'd look after Harry, at least for the next month.

A few seconds later, I reached the edge of the wards and turned back to wave good-bye to the three boys. "Until the Express, all right?" My vision blurred as I disapparated.

* * *

I reappeared in my flat and immediately threw both diaries on the table. I wracked my mind for some way to store it. I didn't have a safe, and I didn't want to trust it to Gringotts, so my vault was out of the question. Whatever I used, it'd have to last until I could safely destroy the diary.

"Glitzy!" My elf popped in. "Can you go to Diagon Alley and purchase a jewelry box?" He nodded, eager for the errand. "It'll need to be bronze or silver, big enough to contain a book this size." I picked up the replica I'd bought earlier. "On second thought, a small cauldron would do as well, if it has a cover. Here's my money pouch. Just make sure it's the right materials."

"Bronze or silver, as you say Master." He popped away.

There are three metals that are magical insulators: gold, silver, and bronze. That's why they're used for currency, and why goblins rely on them for their war-blades. Those metals are effectively immune to magic. If I could store the diary horcrux in such a container, it would isolate its ill effects.

Then I noticed a slight squirming in the corner. So… what do I do with Pettigrew?

The rat was still locked in his cage, placed near my fireplace, and he was not finding captivity to his liking. I found it fairly amusing that he was far too fat to squeeze through the bars, and far too weak to create a larger opening.

But what do I do with Pettigrew?

First things first, I needed to have a plausible excuse, which meant learning the animus detection charm. I could ask Filius when I saw him, or make a quick detour to Kettleburn's office.

Speaking of Filius…. I moved over to my mail-box and sorted through the day's post. Filius had received my response and extended his invitation for the very next day. I quickly moved to the fireplace to confirm by Floo as he requested.

"Hogwarts, Flitwick's Quarters!" I called, and stuck my head in the flame, doing my giraffe impression for the second time that day. Wizards can be ingenious, but they seem to have a universal policy that any magical ingenuity be accompanied by pain or at the very least a sense of discombobulation.

Flitwick's office was impressively pristine, though all the furniture (except for the seats nearest the door) were miniaturized, suited to Flitwick's part-goblin stature. "Professor!" I called cheerily. "Professor?"

When he rounded the corner, I always lost my balance in surprise.

"Mr. Lockhart, how good to hear from you. You got my message?"

"Indeed I did." I replied drily. "Professor Flitwick, may I inquire—"

The short man interrupted with an apologetic smile. "We're colleagues now, call me Filius."

"Professor—"

"It's Filius, I insist."

"Professor Filius, then. It's hard for me, you know – I still remember you as my Head of House when I was a firstie."

"Wasn't much taller than you, though, was I? Still, I can see that would be difficult. But you must try. We are colleagues, so it's only right that our conversation be collegial."

I mirrored his smile. "Still, it would be easier to think of you as Filius if you didn't look about a hundred years older than when I left. What happened?"

He sighed. "I was experimenting with an aging charm. It worked, but went a little further than expected. It should wear off in a week, but then I was thinking of keeping this look for the rest of term. It's starting to grow on me."

"Along with a pretty spectacular amount of facial hair, I'd say"

He hid a grin. "That was an unanticipated bonus. I figure that I look so different with this hair, most of my students would spend most of the Welcoming Feast wondering who I was or why I seemed familiar." This time he let the grin out. "A well-deserves prank on the students, I think."

I stared, then started to chuckle. I would have never expected that from the straight-laced Flitwick. By the time I got my laughing fit under control, he had already resumed the conversational thread. "So you received my note."

"Indeed. Originally I thought about dropping by here, but I have a few things I'd like you to look at, so I'm extending an invitation for you to visit my flat tomorrow morning."

"Of course, I'd be delighted to accept! What's the Floo address?"

I shifted uneasily. "The Floo is Lockhart Hall."

He noted the name with surprise. "Oh, I wasn't aware yours was an established family…."

Damn my predecessor, now I had to explain. "Alas it wasn't. I chose the name in hopes of making it so." A good enough excuse, certainly better than "I used to be a pompous prick," and such motives would be well-understand by Flitwick. 'Half-breeds' were often treated with equal if not greater contempt than the muggle-born by the prejudiced upper crust.

Flitwick nodded seriously.

"Well, that's it then. See you tomorrow, and be ready to put your thinking cap on."

He looked alarmed, "You wish me to bring the Sorting Hat? It hasn't been outside Hogwart's wards in centuries!"

"No, no, sorry, muggle expression." Damn that was going to give me away. "It means be prepared for some serious mental calisthenics."

"Ah. Makes more sense. See you tomorrow then, Mr. Lockhart."

"And you, Professor—Filius" I finished resignedly, and withdrew from the Floo.

By this time Glitzy had returned. "Is this good enough for Master?"

"Excellent work, Glitzy. Thank you." He bounded away. He had purchased a small bronze cauldron and cover, but would more than amply fit the diary despite its size. I put it in, closed the cover, and put it in the same corner as the rat.

So…. What do I do with Pettigrew? I'll see if I can get Flitwick to show me the charms I'd need. I definitely wanted to get Black out of Azkaban, but at the same time wasn't sure if I could accomplish it through the courts. Dumbledore could have gotten Sirius a trial, but he didn't; Sirius was intended to be Harry's guardian if James and Lily died, but in Azkaban he couldn't be. I wasn't the only fan-fic author to see the connection, and it would be foolhardy to the extreme to poke such a tiger without due preparation.

Plus, Dumbledore would probably pin the non-trial on Crouch Sr., and the whole thing would blow up in his face. Before that happened, I wanted to see if I could maneuver my own ally (Cresswell) to replace him. But that was a secondary concern. The main issue was Dumbledore, and I was nowhere near ready to confront him.

Even so, if I could unmask Pettigrew, I could easily bring in Amelia, and together we might find a way to get Sirius transferred to a dementor-free area, or even if necessary stage a jailbreak.

I wasn't ruling anything out.

I spent the rest of the evening by the fire with book in hand, contemplating rats, Dark Lords, and the magical theory behind using elemental spells in combat.

Yes, life was pretty good.

* * *

A/N. Please read and review. This was my first attempt to write sustained dialogue with known characters like the Weasleys, so any feedback is helpful.


	6. Conversations with a Charms Master

Gilding the Son of Lily  
By Publicola

* * *

**Conversations with a Charms Master**

I continued reading late into the night – so late, in fact, that the next thing I knew I was being woken up by my rather frantic house-elf, "Master must wake, Professor Goblin being on the Floo!"

I shook myself blearily and rolled off the bed. "Gilderoy!" I heard my name called from the next room.

"Filius, my apologies for not responding more promptly." I sheepishly added, "A rather engrossing book on elemental magic, I'm afraid."

He grinned knowingly, "I entirely understand. I'll come through in a half-hour?"

"Indeed, I'll be ready for you then."

I hastily washed myself and ate the breakfast Glitzy had prepared, skimming the latest _Daily Prophet_. My autobiography _Magical Me_ continued to top the best-sellers list – I didn't even remember how many weeks it had been on it.

I paid special attention to the sections marked 'Politics' and 'Ministry of Magic Affairs,' and was a little dismayed to find that my recent visits to the Ministry were remarked upon, though there was only speculation as to my purpose—the secrecy oaths held steady.

I also discovered a small feature on legal advice, by a Ministry wizard named Dempster Wiggleswade who worked out of the Auror Investigations Office. His column was nothing out of the ordinary, but I realized that having a professional investigator among my allies would be a huge boon. I scribbled a quick note to Amelia Bones, mentioning Wiggleswade's column and asking her if she knew any reliable DMLE investigators who could be trusted to look into the Harry Potter case.

I had just handed it to Ozymandias for delivery when the Floo flared and Filius stepped through.

Even though I'd seen him last night, his appearance still made me take a step back in consternation. My memories had taught me to expect a short man of tailored suits and impeccable grooming, but this visitor had facial hair growing out in seemingly all directions, and his robes were of a distinctly rumpled sort, more suited for a retired gentleman who does not leave his home.

He chuckled, "The aging charm, remember? Forgive me; it must be quite off-putting."

"Yes, it really is. I don't…" I hesitated "I hope you won't take offense, but could you possibly confirm you really are Filius? It's hard to reconcile the professor I knew to the face before me."

"Indeed, let me think… how's this? I advised you during career counseling in fifth year to give serious thought to pursuing a Charms Mastery in case your Quidditch career didn't work out. You always were something of a prodigy, even if your class-work didn't show it. I'm glad you landed on your feet."

"As am I," I said as I relaxed. "Actually, that brings up something I hoped to discuss with you today. Come, my pensieve is in the other room." I turned away. "How much do you—"

A flash of light, and I knew no more.

* * *

I groggily came to my senses, to find myself magically bound and immobilized in one of my dining chairs. Filius was looming over me. His former benign appearance was now replaced by so goblin-like an expression I nearly wet myself.

Holy crap.

"Ah, Mr. Lockhart," he began, "at last, you're awake. I suppose you'd like to know why you're bound to that chair?" His eyes flared. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Holy crap.

"I hear you're quite the storyteller these days, but today I have a story for you." The casual jocularity of his words was belied by the ruthless intensity of his eyes. "No doubt you've heard the rumors of the DADA curse: no teacher lasts beyond a year? That's right. Of course, it was rather easy to dismiss such rumors, as most of the turnover was due to the last War."

He paused. "That is no longer the cause. Defense professors continue to cycle, even without the excuse of a heroic death or debilitating injury. These days, the post is vacant for less… satisfactory reasons. You see, Mr. Lockhart, of the last ten appointments to the post, four were criminally incompetent, two were merely incompetent, three endangered or attacked students in their care, and one was a pedophile. You'll understand, then, when I say that your predecessors' track record does not breed confidence."

Holy crap.

"So here's what's going to happen. I have some questions, and I need you to answer them honestly. I'm going to return your wand, and you're going to make an oath. If you point your wand in my direction, or do anything other than say the words I give you, I'll start removing various appendages, starting" (he pointed) "with your wand hand and ending" (his finger shifted downward) "with your _other_ wand. Am I clear?"

Holy crap.

He waved his wand to release me from the immobilization, though I was still tightly bound to the chair, and placed the wand in my hand. I very carefully kept it pointed away. I opened my mouth to respond, only to find I couldn't make a sound.

"Oh, that's the silencing spell I put on you. Don't worry, magical oaths are all about intent. And trust me: your intent should be very clear. I read lips, you see, and if you say anything other than the words I give you, my previous offer stands. Now, repeat after me."

Holy crap.

I repeated: 'I pledge by magic and blood… that I shall not disclose to anyone the oath I now make… nor the circumstances related to it… nor endanger Filius Flitwick while he is in my home… and shall be bound to answer honestly… any question he puts to me… for the duration of this visit… and shall only be released from the words of this oath… as and when he chooses to release me…. So swear I.'

A second later and my bindings fell away. Of course, that was only because the oath bound me far more securely than any conjured rope ever could.

Yep. I'm screwed.

"Stay seated. This should only take a minute." Filius took the seat across from me.

Before he could begin I spoke, my voice finally free. "Filius, the answers I give may imperil my life. I am in no position to make demands, but please! I ask for a vow, to hold all you learn here in confidence!"

He gazed at me shrewdly for a moment. "Interesting. I see you feel strongly about this. My answer will, of course, depend on yours. Mr. Lockhart, are you attracted to underage children?"

"No!" I sputtered at the abrupt question.

"Good. Mr. Lockhart, do you currently seek to harm any of the inhabitants of Hogwarts."

"Yes," the answer was forced out of me. "I beg you—"

His eyes blazed with fury. "Who do you seek to harm?"

"Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, Poppy Pompfrey, any student who has committed criminal acts, any student that engages in bullying, any—"

"Enough." Filius cut me off. From the first words, my recitation had clearly astonished him. He pondered silently for a brief moment. "You say these answers would endanger your life?"

"And the lives of others, yes."

Another pause. "Why do you seek to harm Madame Pompfrey?"

"She has failed to address the clear signs of child abuse for at least one of her patients."

"But her oaths!" Filius was flabbergasted. "The Hippocratic Oaths she swore! How—?"

"I know not."

Filius considered it again, the silence lasting for almost half a minute. "Who was the patient?"

Damn he's good! I suppose his intelligence was precisely why I wanted him on my side, but for the moment it made for a bloody mess. "Harry Potter."

His face blanked immediately. Cheek muscles slacked, jaw slightly ajar, eyes unfocused – all clear signs of Occlumentic focus. His eyes gradually regained their sharpness.

Of all the responses I might have expected at that point, the last one I had in mind was for my old professor to simply smile and raise his wand. "I swear by my magic and blood to hold in confidence the information I learn from Gilderoy Lockhart within these walls, unless and until he release me. May I be bound by my word."

I stood agape, feeling more than a little whiplash at his sudden reversal.

He chuckled, "I fought alongside Alastor Moody in the last Wizarding War. I was there when he lost his eye and leg in quick succession. I may not put too fine a point on it, but I can appreciate exercising a little 'constant vigilance,' especially when trafficking in such secrets as you seem to carry."

I shouldn't have pressed my luck, but I could hardly help it. "But why—?"

"Why did I pledge my word? My dear Gilderoy, I used to be a champion duelist. You do not get to that level of competition without being able to read people very well, very quickly." He paused. "I'll be frank: I did not have a clear idea of you when I came to this meeting. When I knew you as a student, you were a hearty: unmotivated, underachieving, decent at Quidditch, and wildly popular with your female peers."

"Like a jock, you mean?" I broke in.

"Yes," he looked at me questioningly, "that is the word, though I seem to recall that term being used mainly by our American cousins?"

Oh cripes.

I turned away abashed under his close gaze, but he relented and continued in a more pensive tone. "Now flash forward ten years. You're a household name, a celebrity author with a penchant for defeating dark creatures. And I'm left to wonder how I could have read you so wrong."

"Then I hear of your appointment, and concluded that either you are a fraud, or your exploits are the result of trafficking in dangerous dark magic. As I said, your predecessors do not inspire confidence."

Fortunately none of this took the form of a question, or the jig would be up. I didn't have the heart to tell him not one but both of his conclusions were accurate.

"So, as I have done with your recent predecessors, I laid my trap. Had you not invited me here, I would have intercepted you the day before the Welcoming Feast and forced the oath out of you. But I received your letter, and here we are. From the few answers you provide, and your sincere fear, I have agreed to bear your secrets. But still you must relieve my doubts."

And here we go again.

"I suppose there is an explanation for why you seek to harm the individuals you named, though I will not ask until you can speak of your own free will. Mr. Lockhart, under what circumstances would you act to harm any inhabitant of Hogwarts?"

It was at times like these that an oath is an extraordinarily useful thing. Knowledge is power, and self-knowledge is even more so. I may not have considered the question before, but thanks to the oath, I knew that whatever I came up with would be accurate.

I reflected for a moment. "I would report any misconduct once I had gathered sufficient evidence for the proper authorities to pursue" (I didn't mention my rather narrow definition of 'proper authority') "and would respond more actively if I considered my life or health, or those of others in my care to be in danger."

Subsidiarity: your first responsibility is to yourself and those closest to you, especially those in your care. Feed your family, before you take your boss out to lunch.

The original Lockhart never got close to anyone. But I was gathering allies, and soon would need to take their safety into account. And while I couldn't take care of the whole castle – well, not yet – I could certainly keep an eye on a few wayward students, such as a certain gilded trio.

"Last question, Mr. Lockhart. Are you a competent teacher of Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

"Nope, not even slightly." My oddly cheery response threw him for a loop, at least for the few seconds before I finished. "That's why you're here."

He chuckled softly. "Ah, ah, indeed. Now, I would release you from your bindings, but I would ask for one more layer of security before I do. I would ask for another oath: this one to not harm or interfere with any Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff students without first consulting myself or Professor Sprout, respectively."

I was a bit puzzled at the selectivity (not Slytherin or Gryffindor?) but I obliged him and made the oath.

"Now, Mr. Lockhart, I release you from the compulsion to answer with complete honesty. If you wish to renew the oath, I certainly wouldn't object, but I understand the nature of secrets."

Freedom!

I nodded. "Er… thank you? I feel like I should be more upset with you than I actually am. Frankly, I respect you more from protecting your students than anything. Though, if you don't mind me asking… why did you extend protection only for 'Claws and 'Puffs? Why not Slytherin or Gryffindor?"

His face fell. "I wondered if you'd catch that. Professor Snape and I have an uneasy truce, you see. He doesn't touch mine, I don't touch his. Even offering protection would impinge on that. As for Gryffindor, Minerva is my superior and the last time I tried I got a thorough dressing-down from her. These days I only work with Sprout."

Huh. I'd have thought McGonagall would have appreciated the protection. Though I had to admit she did a piss-poor job of it herself.

"Wait… you said you did this to my predecessors?"

He nodded. "Indeed, after the pedophile I made sure to visit each new professor before the term began. It's practically impossible to remove anyone before year's end – Dumbledore has them sign magically binding contracts for the year – so it's all I can do to protect the students I can. Doesn't mean I don't make mistakes. I thought Quirrell was another incompetent, not a servant of You-Know-Who. I did not question him nearly enough."

Of course the same applied to me, but I wasn't going to tell him that. Why hadn't he asked if I'd ever committed criminal acts, or something along those lines? This was one instance where the typical lack of common sense among wizards really worked to my advantage.

"So, the Headmaster—?"

"The Headmaster does as he will. His proxies and allies control the Board of Governors, and he is not bound by any counsel we give him."

Huh. I suppose it shouldn't surprise me that Dumbledore's machinations would trouble any adult with a modicum of intelligence. It's just there were so few adults like that in the Harry Potter canon.

Even before this morning I had considered Filius a prospective ally. Now I had his oath of confidence, and the knowledge that he was not one of Dumbledore's minions. Time to take another leap.

After a minute spent deep in thought, I rose and waved him over to more comfortable seats in the front room. "Professor, Filius, I have further information you may need, information of a more troubling sort. How much were you told of Professor Quirrell's actions over the past year?"

It turned out he had been told much the same as others: that Quirrell was an agent of Voldemort, who had disappeared after a failed attempt to steal a powerful—something—from Dumbledore's protection.

Bursting that bubble of misinformation was painful but necessary.

I told him everything, more than Amelia, more than the goblins. I told him how Quirrell was not missing but dead. I told him how Quirrell was not a servant of Voldemort but a host, possessed by his wraith. He knew that Harry Potter had been involved; I told him how the set-up was engineered. I told him of my meeting with the goblins and Dirk Cresswell. I told him of my meeting with Amelia, and our concerns of Harry Potter's home life. And I told him my suspicions of Dumbledore's deeds and manipulations.

I was slightly short of breath by the time I finished, for speaking at such length, but he was far more winded than I. Understandable – his view of the world had been rather violently overthrown. Even with his concern (verging on contempt) for Dumbledore's hiring practices, I doubt he imagined the Headmaster could have sunk so low.

He shakily informed me that he would like some time to consider the matter, and before I could get a word in edgewise, he walked through the Floo back to his quarters at Hogwarts.

Well.

A thought struck me. "Glitzy!" My elf popped in, eager as usual. "Where were you when Filius had me strapped to that chair?"

"Oh, Professor Goblin said he teaching you… er, 'sitsional awakement'?"

"…do you mean, situational awareness?" Damn he's good!

Glitzy nodded so hard he practically bounced. "That's right!"

All right, deep breath. "Glitzy. Next time you find me bound and unconscious, you are to assume I have been attacked, unless or until I inform you otherwise? Is that clear?"

My elf's enthusiasm dissipated, and now he seemed on the verge of tears. "You… you mean, Professor Goblin was bad? Oh no, Glitzy failed Master! Bad Glitzy! Bad—!"

"Glitzy!" I broke in before he could punish himself. "It's all right, you couldn't have known, you must not punish yourself. And no, I don't believe Professor Goblin is bad, he simply wanted to make sure I wasn't bad myself. Just make sure it doesn't happen again, okay?"

I can't believe I actually called him 'Professor Goblin'.

A still shaken but slightly relieved house-elf popped away, leaving me to consider how to spend the rest of the day. Ozymandias had returned at some point during my tête-à-tête with Filius, and had left Amelia's response on my desk by his perch.

_Mr. Lockhart,_

_I'd already begun to consider who among my Aurors could be trusted with the information you provided, though I believe your suggestion to first look to the Investigative Office is quite wise. Wiggleswade is the senior analyst, but I have little confidence that he would do anything but first look towards his own advancement. The same sadly applies to his chief, Thicknesse._

_At this time, I believe we would be best served by one of the younger Auror investigators, whose work is quite exceptional. I have made an appointment with Ms. Hestia Jones for this evening, and will have her view the memory at that time._

_Sincerely,_

_Amelia_

Huh. I knew that name – long time since I'd heard it, though. Hestia Jones, Hufflepuff, two years behind me if memory serves. I knew her siblings better, if only by reputation – Gavyn Jones, Head Boy the year before me, and Gwenog Jones, two or three years younger than Hestia, but currently the star beater on the Hollyhead Harpies.

But she was a Hufflepuff, and if Amelia trusted her so would I.

I scribbled two quick notes, one thanking Amelia for letting me know, the other for Hestia asking if she had any questions or concerns regarding her recent conversation with Director Bones. I put them on the pile to send the next morning.

Next I dug through my post-box for new mail. I set aside more of the responses to my fan-mail form letter – same breakdown between positive and crazy responses. I soon found a note from Dirk Cresswell, informing me that he would be meeting with the goblins that evening, and had requested a meeting with Department Head Crouch for the next day.

He had promised to write again after each meeting, so there was really no reason to respond.

The rest of my mail proved utterly uninspiring, so I moved to finding a book. As a recent muggle, I had no difficulty sensing the magic within me. However, neither of my backgrounds provided much information at all on how my magic worked, so learning theory would prove essential.

I grabbed the book on elemental magic from the previous evening, and settled in to read.

* * *

It was shortly after dinner that the fireplace flared and the face of my old Charms professor appeared in the flames. "Mr. Lockhart? Gilderoy?"

I walked into sight, "Ah, Professor Flitwick, you've returned."

"Indeed. May I come through?"

I nodded and a few seconds later he stepped through the Floo.

"I apologize for my rather sudden departure earlier. I would say that only rarely are so many deeply held beliefs shattered in so short a time, but I really have no excuse, it was most discourteous."

I waved him off, "No matter, I understand. It has not been entirely pleasant for myself either. What caused you to return?"

He smirked slightly, "I realized that I had forgotten my other errand, my stated purpose for visiting. I may not have come to terms yet with what you have told me, but reviewing such memories should serve as an adequate distraction, don't you think?"

"Indeed," I partially turned, then stopped. "I trust you won't stun and bind me this time, but I'll still ask that you precede me into the other room."

He blushed, "Quite right."

He hadn't gotten three steps away before he collapsed in a flash of red light. "_Stupefy_. _Incarcerous_." I rolled him over, "_Ennervate_. And that, my dear Filius, is just to show you I can. _Finite_." The ropes disappeared and I helped him to his feet.

He chuckled ruefully. "I suppose I deserve that. Quick question: how were you not stopped by your oath? I'd forgotten to release you before I left."

"Come, Filius, I only swore not to endanger you. A stunning spell has no lasting effects, and besides, I doubt such an oath applies to pranks."

"So it would seem. Before I forget, I release you from the bindings not to endanger me. If, as I hope, we are going to train together, there will come a time when you must cast dangerous magic against me."

"I would like that, very much."

"What, throw curses at me?"

"No, train toge— why, you're taking the mickey out of me!" I laughed.

"Here we are." I had been directed Filius into the study, and he stopped in front of the pensieve. "What memory shall we view first?"

"Before we go in, I actually had a question I was about to ask you before you decided to truss me up for interrogation." He blushed slightly. "How familiar are you with how a pensieve works? I trust you've used one before?"

He considered the question. "I have, though I only have a passing familiarity with the device thanks to my research on memory charms."

"Good, so we have roughly the same background. Now, you'll notice the runic array around the lip of the device." I pointed. "About half of those are concerned with how a memory is presented. The liquid acts as a conduit between the memory and the runic array. When a person touches the liquid, such as with a finger, that conduit is activated by that person's magical core, and once powered draws the individual's mind into the desired environment—an artificial mindscape, as it were."

Filius' eyebrows rose precipitously with each sentence. I got the sense he was rather impressed.

"However, the other half of the runic array is far more interesting. Tell me, are you familiar with the muggle sciences of psychology or neurology?"

He shook his head. This was getting far out of his depth.

"Muggles lack magic, but they have an astonishing capacity for innovation through mechanical means. Through such means—that is, technology—they have discovered aspects of the human body that wizards, for all our magic, remain largely ignorant of. Take neurology, the science of the human brain. Most purebloods know that the brain exists. Most muggleborn wizards are probably aware that the brain is considered the seat of the mind. However, a number of modern neuroscientists believe that the brain is not a single organ at all, but is rather comprised of three layers, three distinct organs. The basic organ is the reptilian complex, which controls for automatic bodily processes like heartbeat, digestion, and breathing. Wrapped around that is the 'paleomammalian' brain or limbic system, which controls our behavioral instincts, emotions, and subconscious triggers. Finally, the outermost layer is the 'neomammmalian' brain or neocortex, which controls our conscious mind, those things that define us as human. Are you following so far?"

Filius nodded, his darting eyes the only outward sign of his racing thoughts.

"That is how a muggle brain works. A wizard's brain works largely in the same way, only augmented by magic. At the lowest level, magic is infused through automatic bodily processes: this is why we heal faster and live longer than muggles. The limbic system controls for subconscious triggers—such as our 'fight, flight or freeze' response to fear. Among wizards, those reflexes manifest in outbursts of accidental magic. Lastly, the neocortex is the seat of conscious activity, and is it the magical connectors in that layer that regulate controlled magic, with or without a wand."

I paused, and Filius broke in with a question. "But I was under the impression that is it our magical core that determines our ability to do magic?"

"Indeed you're right. Our core powers our magic. However, active magic is intent-based, which is tied to the magical conduits in our brain. That is the difference between a squib and a muggle, for instance. A muggle has neither core nor conduits, while a squib has the neural conduits without the core to power them. That's why squibs can perceive magical creatures, where muggles ordinarily cannot. That's always why the Hogwarts' caretaker Filch is capable of very minor acts of magic, though he is a known squib. The neural conduits of a squib are activated in the presence of ambient magic."

"Remarkable!" He breathed. Indeed, Lockhart's knowledge of mind magic was so encyclopedic as to be truly out of character. Combining his research with my muggle background, and the conclusions I was drawing were quite original.

"Now, the reason I bring this up in the first place is very simple: according to the muggle understanding of human memory, perfect recall is a myth. Every second we are bombarded with more external stimuli than we can possibly handle. The only way we do is by restricting what we perceive and what we remember. It simply should not be possible to review memories and find new details that went unnoticed the first time around, precisely because the details we fail to notice are not included in our memories at all!"

At this Filius looked astonished – he clearly hadn't considered the point in this light.

"Yet we know such a thing must be possible, because we experience it every time we use a pensieve. That is where the other half of the runic array comes in. You see, for wizards, memory is not simply stored in the neocortex—that is, the conscious mind. For us, memory is also archived in the limbic system. It is a survival strategy. Magic is intrinsically dangerous, so we adapted by constantly surveying our environments for danger, even when we aren't aware of it. It is that which we extract every time we use a pensieve – the conscious memory is merely an anchor. It is the runic array in the pensieve that takes the residue from these subconscious sweeps and enhances the mental image before they can be viewed."

I could tell that Filius had begun to respond with enthusiasm. He was the Ravenclaw Head of House for a reason; he knew where this was headed.

"By studying that portion of the runic array, I realized that memory charms could be modified to create a similar effect. Such charms can amplify certain memories, or reduce the effect of others. That is how I made myself the wizard I am today, out of the unmotivated hearty you taught at Hogwarts."

I gazed triumphantly at Professor Flitwick, only to realize he once again bore all the symptoms of Occlumentic focus. A few seconds later, his eyes sharpened and he gazed at me again. "The prospects of such a discovery are… are phenomenal!"

I hated to do it, but I burst his bubble for the second time that day."And extraordinarily dangerous. This goes beyond mere memory-replacement or Obliviation. A spell like this could mimic the properties of a hyper-intelligent eidetic mind for anyone who learns it. It would be the ultimate shortcut for students to skip years ahead in their studies, or for dark wizards to do the same. Knowledge is power, and a spell such as this could amplify the power of anyone, regardless of their virtue. In time, I might be willing to share it with others, but for now I have not entrusted this discovery to anyone."

"Then why bring it up?" A deflated Flitwick queried.

"For one, I plan to use that charm to enhance the memories you provide, so I will perfectly recall observing your class for however many years you choose to provide. You'd probably figure it out anyway, just by seeing me use the charm. Besides, we seem to have reached some sort of understanding. I felt explaining the charm would be an sign of trust, an olive branch of sorts."

"Of course, it wouldn't hurt that I swore an oath not to speak of it to anyone, isn't that right?"

I chuckled at his wry observation. "Fair enough, the thought did cross my mind."

He shook himself. "Well, this is all well and good, but let's get on with the memories. Where shall we begin?"

I knew quite well where I wanted to begin, but wasn't sure how to make the request. I decided for a frontal approach. "Given our conversation earlier, I had hoped you might be willing to share your memories of teaching James Potter and Lily Evans? Mr. Potter has no one to tell him of his parents, and while I knew of them by reputation I hoped that by observing them, I might have stories to share with him."

"I hadn't thought of that." He chuckled. "Be warned, though, they were quite notorious troublemakers, though all the teachers loved them. It was a sad day we saw them leave Hogwarts for graduation, but there was not a little sense of relief as well." His expression slowly moved to sorrow for the loss of their young lives.

A few seconds later he moved the tip of his wand to his temple, and we entered his memories without further ado.

* * *

**A/N**: Here's a response to select reviews, listed by user name and ID (if registered) or date (if unregistered).

**Britael **(id:1648801): My problem with most of Perfect Lionheart/Skysaber's work is his tendency to run off the rails. Yeah, it's almost always fun and interesting, but in the end the story either has nowhere to go, or is being pulled in too many directions for a coherent narrative. Love the author, but it bugs me to no end. Speaking of which,

**Me** (7/25/12): Nope, I am not Jared Ornstead (who writes as Skysaber and Perfect Lionheart). This fic was inspired by him, but a large part of that was because I hoped to do it better.

**WarmasterSamiel** (id:2078778): Yeah, "My Gilded Life" takes place entirely within the summer before second year. This strikes me as far too condensed to deal with such a messed up world as Rowling presents. So yes, Lockhart will definitely find himself teaching at Hogwarts, though I'll spend more than a few chapters getting there.

**HypoSoc** (id:2796859): Thank you! It's always nice to read such a positive review, especially one that tells me specifically what is working in this story.

**Emarald777** (id:3931835): I'd agree that the canon world worked out to Dumbledore v. Voldemort with Harry as a mere pawn. I'd even concede (tentatively) that Dumbledore cared for Harry. My problem is not Dumbledore's intentions but his actions. Sure, the prophecy says that Harry is the only one who could vanquish Voldemort. But that doesn't mean he had to do it alone. Surely there's another path that wouldn't lead to Harry Potter committing suicide by the end of the seventh book.

**Vangran **(id:2489393): Thanks! I'd take your suggestion for the Diary Horcrux, except I already have plans for how to deal with it. The odd thing is, I don't think I've seen any fic that treats horcruxes as I plan to. It's entirely possible I've stumbled onto an original idea.

**Lillyflowers_revenge** (id:1818616): Lockhart will probably succeed in flying 'under the radar' at least until Hogwarts. No guarantees what'll happen after that, though. The fireworks should be spectacular.

**Reader_anonymous_writer** (id:2788678): Lots to respond to, here.  
(1) Re: mental defenses, it's entirely possible that common protections exists, that Rowling simply never mentions. In HBP, Draco is taught Occlumency by his aunt Bella for a single summer, yet is somehow able to withstand Snape's legilemens probe.  
(2) Re: Malfoy not being an Ancient House, it always seemed like Lucius and Draco belonged to the nouveau riche, the newly ascendant to high society. They throw around their money, but lack the sense of history as their counterparts, the House of Black, which (though Ancient) had declined into near-poverty. A marriage alliance between two such families makes sense, and parallels real life.  
(3) Re: Severus Snape, you're absolutely right that he'll suspect Lockhart. I'm not yet sure how to deal with that. I do know that he won't be a major ally. Even if I liked him (and I don't), he's still a marked servant of Voldemort and a minion of Dumbledore, and those are the two people Lockhart wishes to avoid. As I hope this chapter makes clear, Filius Flitwick will be filling the role of "ally with Slytherin cunning."  
(4) Re: goblins, you raise a number of good points, especially the possibility of sharing that knowledge with other magical creatures. I'll have to factor that into my plans.  
(5) Re: Hogwarts Express, I was actually planning on doing exactly that, though there will be a twist in my treatment of house elves.

Thanks again to all my reviewers, even the ones I didn't respond to here.


	7. Of Pensieve and Post

Gilding the Son of Lily  
By Publicola

* * *

**Of Pensieve and Post**

I was beginning to suspect that the imbecility of wizards was contagious.

When I'd first fomented my brilliant plan, I hadn't paused to think. Seven years of memory, however compressed by a pensieve, would still take a ridiculous amount of time to watch.

Each of the core classes were scheduled twice during the week: one single-period, one double-period. Each period was 45 minutes long. Thus, each week, students would spend two and a quarter hours in class. There are 52 weeks in a year. Subtract breaks for Christmas (3 weeks), Easter (1 week), finals (1 week) and summer (10 weeks), and you have 37 weeks of school. 37 weeks, times 2.25 hours, equals 83.25 hours of class per year.

Even with the ten-to-one time acceleration of a pensieve, that's still 8 hours 20 minutes of real time to observe a single year of classes.

Damn.

Of course, bless his tiny goblin soul, Filius had decided to go a step beyond my original request. As he copied and extracted the memories, he informed me that I would not only have memories of his classes, but of his interactions with staff and certain students outside of class.

It was a veritable gold mine of memories. But, as with any gold mine, it would take immense time and patience to fully pan out. There's a reason California gold miners were called 'squatters': that's how they spent most of their time.

As I watched Filius fill and label vial after vial of memory, I realized the immensity of my plan. Even if I were to drop everything but this, it would still take me another week at least. I hastily extended an invitation for Filius to rejoin me the next day, and however many days after that until we finished reviewing the memories.

I hardly dared imagine he'd accept, yet he did, to my sincere astonishment. It struck me: how much time was he willing to volunteer, to ensure I would be a competent teacher! Even the Lockhart side of me felt humbled by this.

As I had made a career out of memories, for better or worse, I had an impressive set of collector vials. However, at Filius' prodigious pace, I soon found myself running out. I reassured him that I'd send Glitzy to purchase more tomorrow, and he set the filled vials aside. Preparing the pensieve, he waved me inside.

I felt a twirling sense of disorientation, before I found myself standing in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, the tables lined with students and staff. As the massive front doors swung open with a bank, I realized that this was the Welcoming Feast, and Professor McGonagall was leading in first years.

Filius and I stood off to the side as the new students took their place near the front. As the Sorting Hat did its little song and dance, Filius pointed out a few familiar faces, and as Minerva called them up for Sorting I was able to match a few more.

James Potter carried himself like a little aristocrat, it was true. It could hardly be otherwise. His father Charlus was Head of House Potter, descended from the legendary Peverells, while his mother Dorea was the youngest daughter of the Head of House Black, Cygnus II. The Potter family was practically the definition of old money, and it showed.

And yet… even in the few hours he'd spent on the Hogwarts Express, he had already surrounded himself with a clique of outcasts. The first was his cousin Sirius, scion of House Black, who by eleven was already considered a disappointment to the family. When I saw his delighted grin at being sorted into Gryffindor, I knew it was only a matter of time before he would be blasted off the Family Tree entirely. Next among the Mauraders was Remus Lupin, sired by the werewolf Fenrir Greyback at the age of six. He looked so withdrawn it was hard to imagine he would later be best mates with the brash and impulsive Sirius, yet already he was standing by James' side. Finally there was the skittish half-blood Peter Pettigrew, middle child of a low-status low-income family, whose sorting into Gryffindor seemed inconceivable to me. He was frightened of practically everything! Yet these were the people James had surrounded himself with.

No, James knew he had status. But he genuinely cared for those who had none.

On the opposite side of the spectrum, and indeed standing as far away from James as possible, was the dour figure of Severus Snape. I was slightly surprised to see him standing apart from Lily Evans, before Filius explained what had happened on the train. James had seen Lily on the train and, instantly smitten, had tried to chat her up. Snape had tried to make him leave by insulting his family; Sirius defended his friend in his usual brash manner, and Snape had tossed out another insult, this time casting aspersions on Gryffindor. Lily, at this point disgusted with the lot of them, had left to find another compartment.

Lily would soon be reconciled with Snape: they had been best friends for several years, and she had a lot of sympathy for the boy who'd been raised in an abusive home. It was this loyalty to her friend that made her less forgiving and more eager to contend with the snobbish Potter boy. It would be many years before James could overcome that first impression.

Lily herself was standing in rapt attention beside another girl, an Alice Fortescue who was sorted to Hufflepuff. I didn't take much note of this, until Filius explained that she was the future Mrs. Longbottom, Neville's mother. I kept my eye out for Frank, Neville's father, but didn't find him until near the end of the memory, when I spotted him sitting among the Gryffindor Second Years.

Filius also pointed out where Snape had sat at the Slytherin table upon being Sorted. Being an unknown half-blood, he was for the moment on the outside looking in. But what he was 'looking in' towards was a conversation between Evan Rosier, Wilfred Avery, and Vincent Mulciber. Those three were the sons of Dillus Rosier, Caddoc Avery, and Weyland Mulciber, respectively – the earliest supporters of Tom Riddle, and founding members of the Knights of Walpurgis long before they became known as Death Eaters. Those three first years were born into families that belonged to Lord Voldemort, and they knew they would follow their fathers' leads.

I could already tell where this was going. Such cohesion and unity of purpose would be incredibly attractive to a child like Snape, who had grown up abused and largely friendless. Sure enough, by the end of the conversation it was clear Snape was looking at them as role models. He was already starting to mimic their behavior! The results of this, especially as it would affect his friendship with Lily, would not be seen until Fifth Year, but it was clear the die was already cast.

Filius also pointed out the members of the staff. Minerva, Pomona, Hagrid, Slughorn, and Filius' memory-self were all there, as was Dumbledore on his golden throne. The rest I didn't recognize. A few of them remained on the staff to the present day, such as Silvanus Kettleburn (Care of Magical Creatures), Bathsheda Babbling (Ancient Runes), and Aurora Sinistra (Astronomy). But most of the unknowns had long since retired. Lauren Wakefield had Arithmancy, Blenheim Stalk taught Muggle Studies, Friedrich Savage taught Defense Against the Dark Arts (he would return to the Auror Force the next year, where his son would later follow) and the celebrated Cassandra Vablatsky was teaching Divination, though she would retire in 1980, in time for that damnable prophecy from Sybil Trelawny.

Filius had decided that it'd be best to adjourn for the night, and get some sleep before tackling the entirety of First Year the next day. He simply wanted to introduce me to the various students and staff that would feature strongly in his memories. So, after nearly four hours within the pensieve (though less than half-hour of real time) we exited and I bade him farewell as he left by the Floo.

* * *

The first thing I did the next morning was to check the post, and sure enough I had received several letters of note.

_Gilderoy,_

_Thought to drop you a quick note after meeting with the goblins. As expected, they're stonewalling on the Potter account. However, the managers I met would almost certainly fold if pressured by one of the stronger clans. Ragnok's is one of the strongest, and from what you told me about meeting with him, he should be easily persuaded to cooperate. Goblins hate to have debts weighing over them._

_I'll contact you again after meeting with Crouch, and if I learn anything new on this front._

_Cresswell_

Amelia also sent me a brief update, saying she'd met with Hestia yesterday evening. The junior Auror had been quite shaken by what she'd seen, but recovered enough to put together a course of action. Amelia had been impressed. She drafted a memo for Thicknesse reassigning Jones to report directly to her. I responded.

_Amelia,_

_Thank you for informing me of your conversation with Ms. Jones. I hope to meet with her shortly, and with your permission will discuss her plans for addressing the situation._

_There is another concern I must raise. If indeed Harry Potter is being abused, then one wonders why no adult at Hogwarts brought the issue forward. More specifically, such a failure to report would mean that Madame Pompfrey is in direct violation of her oaths as Healer._

_I think we need to involve someone from St. Mungo's, a healer we can trust to document the abuse as well as deal with the forsworn Pompfrey. If the school nurse is removed, then she will need to be replaced, and who better than by a healer already in our confidence?_

_I await your reply,_

_Gilderoy Lockhart_

Finally, I received a response from Mrs. Abbott on behalf of herself and Mrs. Finch-Fletchley. They thanked me profusely for my suggestion of a Hogwarts Parent-Teacher Alliance, and invited me to meet with them and a few other parents they knew. I hastened to reply, suggested that we meet on the 13th, the day after Slughorn's dinner party.

After breakfast, Filius stepped through the Floo and we began our whirlwind tour of First Year.

* * *

Filius was… phenomenal. Lockhart hadn't paid much attention during his Hogwarts years, but now I could definitively say Filius was easily the best teacher I'd ever seen in action. His instruction in Charms was unmatched, and it seemed that every moment of silence in the memory was filled by the running commentary of his current self. I might have been annoyed had I not been scrambling to keep track of everything I was learning.

I could easily see why Lily Evans was a favorite among the staff. She reminded me a little of Hermione, though she had better social skills and thus managed to surround herself with equally enthusiastic learners like Alice. She and her study group were a genuine delight to watch. Several times Filius remarked how their incisive questions had actually helped him better understand the concept he was presenting.

I was rather stunned to discover that the Mauraders were nearly as studious as she was. It turns out the group was not primarily oriented around pranks. That was Sirius' passion, and he dragged the others along for the ride. Rather, it was school-work that was their _raison d'etre_. I should have guessed. Anyone capable of becoming animagi while still in their teens, or able to enchant an object like the Marauder's Map, was clearly more than a little gifted.

I found it quite amusing to watch Lily as she was constantly stymied by James' demonstrated intelligence in class.

Of course, it was even more amusing to see their interactions out of class. James had clearly been pampered as a child, though he was nowhere near the level of someone like Draco Malfoy. But anytime he got too big for his britches, Lily would swoop in to deflate his ego. Poor kid – James wasn't exactly unarmed in a battle of wits, but pitted against such a girl, he didn't stand a chance. And that's not even to mention his obvious infatuation with her.

From those not-class memories I noticed that Dumbledore paid considerable attention to the Prewett brothers, Fabian and Gideon, mentioning them or awarding special points during various Feasts throughout the year. I wondered what games he was playing with their lives – Harry couldn't have been the first – and considered the cost the Prewett twins had ultimately paid. It was a sobering thought.

After the first two weeks of class we withdrew from the pensieve for a breather. We had been viewing nearly five hours of memory, though not even a half-hour had elapsed of real time. This was a considerable relief to me. By rights I should have been tired and hungry, yet my body was hardly troubled. I had worried that I'd need to eat and relieve myself according to time spent inside the pensieve. This was not the case: only my mind was affected by the time acceleration.

We got into a pattern. Every two weeks we'd withdraw. Filius would remove, label and store the memory we'd just watched, while I practiced the charms he had covered. I had to explain that I wanted to refresh my muscle memory for each one; after that, he kept his silence on my practice. Then back into the memories.

As for academics, First Year Charms began and ended with an overview of basic wand movements: the well-known swish, the well-loved flick, and other notables like the twirl, whirl, dash, slash, jab, tap, and dip. The initial progression of charms that were taught was primarily a function of their complexity. The first charm taught, for instance (_Lumos_), required only a single wand movement, while _Wingardium Leviosa _(introduced six weeks later, around Halloween) required two. Thus, each discrete movement was applied by practicing various simple charms.

We took brief breaks for lunch and dinner, but at last it was time for Filius to depart.

Before retiring to bed, I placed my wand at my temple and enhanced my memories of the day.

"_Tempus_." The time was 9:22pm.

* * *

I had more post awaiting me the next morning.

_Mr. Lockhart,_

_I had no sooner returned home from my meeting with Madame Bones than I saw your note asking me about that meeting. It would be a pleasure to meet with you: perhaps you'd like to join me for tea sometime next week? Let me know a day that will work for you._

_Hestia_

I dashed off a quick reply suggesting we meet on the afternoon of Saturday the 15th.

Amelia also wrote me, listing the names of a few respected healers at St. Mungo's. One in particular caught my eye.

_Amelia,_

_I'd suggest Andromeda Tonks. I understand her husband is a muggleborn lawyer, and her daughter is one of your Auror Trainees. If they are trustworthy, all of them would be most helpful._

_Gilderoy_

Finally, I received a note from Arthur, asking if I'd made any progress on the cursed item Malfoy had slipped into Ginny's school things.

_Arthur,_

_As you probably know your daughter had not yet unpacked her school things, which is most fortunate as the object in question seems to radiate dark magic. I have not yet diagnosed the curses placed on it, though at least one is a compulsion. I believe it would be best to involve a professional curse breaker on this matter. If you don't mind, I understand your eldest son works for Gringotts in that capacity. What is the best way of contacting him for assistance?_

_Gilderoy_

Filius rejoined me and we moved to the room containing my pensieve.

The previous day I had sent Glitzy out to purchase a new cabinet to store memories. He had returned with a marvel. It was a black-and-gold lacquer cabinet with glass doors in front. However, when I swung them open for the first time, they became opaque, and I saw on the back side of each a catalog of the nearly hundred separate shelves the cabinet contained. Each shelf could be labeled and magically selected, at which point the shelves would move up or down until the selected one was in the center. I wasn't sure of the physics of it, but I'm pretty sure it involved an undetectable extension charm on the top and bottom panels.

At any rate, we stored the previous day's memories on a shelf of their own (labeled "1971"). This completed, we reentered the pensieve.

* * *

The second year proved much the same as the first. Filius remained excellent, Lily remained studious, the Marauders remained delightful, the Prewett twins remained favored. I did notice a few subtle shifts, however.

Sirius had finally recruited his friends to join him in a series of innocuous but extremely clever school-wide pranks. It was at Halloween that the Marauders first made their presence known to the school, though they had not yet assumed their animagus-names. Their pranking career debuted to applause by the students and hidden smiles by the staff. Filius confided that it hadn't taken long for any of the staff to connect the anonymous pranksters to the four Gryffindor boys.

I also noticed that Lily had begun to warm up to James and his friends, if only because they were the only other Gryffindors to take their homework seriously. She even sat beside Remus on occasion, considering him the least offensive of the group, though I wondered if she'd began to put the pieces together on Lupin's condition. The détente may not have extended outside the classroom, but James took it as a sign of hope.

As for the the class itself, by Second Year most students' repertoire of wand movements were sufficiently developed to begin learning charms by category: for instance, by area of effect.

The first type of charm is exemplified by _Lumos_: the effect is tied to the wand itself. Simple enough, except how many would realize that the shield charm _Protego_, or Dumbledore's awesome fire-whip in Half-Blood Prince, would fall into the same category?

A second category involves those charms that produce effects in a straight line from the tip of the wand. These include most jinxes and hexes, as well as any charm that requires careful aiming, though the precise area of effect depends on the spell.

The third category involves those charms that do not require careful pointing. These are permitted a much more generous area of effect, though still usually contingent on either the direction of the wand-tip or of the caster's line-of-sight.

Of course, Flitwick couldn't make it easy for everyone and just explain this from the beginning. Instead, he emphasized the commonalities and differences of each charm in their respective lessons, so that his students could draw the requisite connections themselves, usually by mid-Spring of their second year.

Flitwick helpfully informed me that this simpler outline prepared students for another on a far grander scale, with details that wouldn't be fully fleshed out until near the time of their OWLs.

After nearly 9 hours of real time, and countless hours of memories, we withdrew for the last time and Filius returned to his Hogwarts quarters. I was mentally and physical exhausted, even with the time difference. I changed quickly and collapsed into bed. It had been a fantastically productive day, but this was not a schedule I was looking forward to keeping.

* * *

The next morning found me slightly stymied. It was a Sunday: where do wizards go to church?

I wasn't sure about the purebloods – I wouldn't have been surprised if they followed the old pagan rites – but surely the muggleborn would retain some attachment to their families' faith. Roughly 30% of British citizens went through the motions of belonging to the church of England, attending Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday services at least. A little over 2% were regular attendees. Britain did not have nearly as religious a population as one would find in America, but nothing to sneeze at.

So where are the churchs? Were there religious services offered at Hogwarts or Hogsmeade – and if not, why not?

Dressing in one of the few muggle outfits in my attire – and yes, being muggleborn I knew not to dress in the parody of muggle clothing worn by certain witless wizards – I ate a quick breakfast and Flooed to the Leaky Cauldron. I knew I had a bit of money left over from my earlier jaunt to Vauxhall Road, so I called down a cab and asked him where the nearest Catholic Church was.

He gave me directions to the Corpus Christi on Maiden Lane, easily within walking distance.

* * *

I returned around lunchtime, and grabbed a bite at the Leaky Cauldron. It was rather obnoxious, getting stared at by elderly witches, but it was good to be out of doors again.

I had received several letters since yesterday. Mrs. Abbott wrote to confirm the time and date of our meeting, as did Miss Hestia Jones. Arthur responded and said that the best way to reach Bill was through the goblins, as you never knew when he might be in the midst of a project. I scribbled a quick reply, then wrote a longer note for Cresswell.

_Dirk,_

_I find myself in need of a curse breaker – I'll tell you the story later. Could you write to Ragnok and set up a meeting between myself and one of their Egyptian curse breakers, a Bill Weasley? If he asks, you can inform him that concerns my last words to him after our meeting._

_I'm much obliged to you; unlike the goblins, I don't mind so much._

_Gilderoy_

For the rest of the day I relaxed, enjoying a few books out of my collection. I knew I wouldn't have much time to study the Muggle side of things, but ignorance was weakness and my curiosity was piqued, so I flipped through a few of the texts I'd picked up on my trip to Winstanley's Bookstore.

* * *

I resumed the frenetic pace the next morning. Cresswell had written back:

_Mr. Lockhart,_

_I met with Crouch, and he seemed quite enthusiastic about our restructuring proposal. His read on the politics of it were much the same as yours: no doubt the Blood Purists would object strenuously, but the Chief Warlock's pro-sentient stance would more than compensate. When I left his office he was already setting up meetings with various Ministry officials. As for Mockridge, it is no secret that he is nearing retirement, so Crouch was amenable to your idea of moving him to a ceremonial position while I take the helm of this office. I will continue to work with him, but do you have any suggestions for other allies who might help push this through?_

_I have passed along your request to Ragnok to meet with their Curse Breaker, along with our request for assistance regarding the Potter will. I made sure to make mention of the potential restructuring, emphasizing your role particularly. By presenting the requests in the context of additional favors done, I am confident Ragnok will feel his debt to you not yet repaid. This is perhaps the only way to develop a working relationship with the goblins, by leveraging favors to ensure they remain amenable, and develop sufficient familiarity to overcome their contempt for wizard-kind._

_I will pass along their response when I receive it._

_Cresswell_

I responded with my thanks and encouragement, and let him know I'd ask around to see who else might be willing to work with us.

Amelia had also written, informing me that she would be meeting with Mrs. Tonks that evening. I replied thanking her for the update. I also informed her of my work with Cresswell on the potential restructuring, asking for her support and suggestions of others who might work for such a proposal.

Filius arrived around mid-morning, and we entered the pensieve together. Immediately it was clear to me that something had changed. The very atmosphere felt different, somehow more weighted.

Filius soon explained: their previous Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Caradoc Dearborn, had disappeared during a Death Eater raid over the summer, and his body was never recovered. Dearborn had been one of the frontline fighters in the Order of the Phoenix, and his loss was keenly felt by all. His disappearance had driven home the reality of war to many students, especially James Potter.

Yet, as the memories continued, it was clear that even that was not a sufficient explanation. Even after the Marauders had regained their usual energy and enthusiasm, they have grown more directed, focused, and cohesive of a group.

Then I remembered: it was during third year that the others had discovered Lupin's lycanthropy, and made the decision to become animagi so he wouldn't have to suffer alone. The sheer intensity of their work in class was astonishing. They were already some of the most driven and resourceful students of their age, but with the added incentive of looking after a friend, they really took it to another level. Even Lily seemed to notice, and began to seat beside Lupin more regularly. She had almost certainly figured it out before the rest, but wanted to ensure that the werewolf felt welcomed by others.

Filius' instruction remained stellar, as usual, and I continued to learn my old Professor's running commentary, from both his past and present self.

* * *

The next morning I received my response from Amelia.

_Gilderoy,_

_Though I do not fully see the benefits of the restructuring you outline, you have won yourself a bit of trust, so I will offer my support – contingent on a fuller explanation of the advantages than you provided in your last letter._

_As for other supporters, I think Cresswell ought to speak with Elphias Doge and Tiberius Ogden on the Wizengamot. Doge is an old school-fellow of Dumbledore, and serves as his second-in-command and occasional proxy. He is responsible for ensuring the Traditionalist bloc shows up and votes in line with Dumbledore's suggestions. As for Ogden, he is a highly respected member who has on several occasions departed from Dumbledore's lead. He is the key to any neutral voters, and his support could throw the balance for the rest of the Wizengamot._

_I met with Mrs. Tonks and shared the memory with her. She is determined to provide her support, though is unsure of the particulars. If you could speak with her, I'm sure she would be grateful for your help._

_Amelia_

I thanked her profusely, and drafted a quick note for Cresswell passing the information along. Doge apparently filled the same role as that of a "Party Whip" in the American political system, and in many cases it is the trusted second-in-command who moves the leader, just as the neck moves the head. I did add an emphatic side-note that in his meeting with Doge, Cresswell was not to mention my involvement in the proposal. I wanted to fly under Dumbledore's radar for the moment, and Doge was far too close for my liking. As for Ogden, if Amelia's information was correct he would be a cornerstone of any neutral faction I might foster, and for that reason alone would be indispensable.

As Amelia suggested, I also penned a quick note for Andromeda, suggesting we meet sometime later in the week.

Filius arrived and we settled in for another exhausting day in the pensieve.

* * *

If Third Year had felt slightly darker, Fourth Year felt positively ominous. Death Eater attacks had again ramped up over the summer, and the DADA post was again vacated by the loss of life.

It was also clear that something had shifted in the power structure at Hogwarts, as Flitwick bore witness to a number of bullying incidents that plagued the younger generation of 'mudbloods,' 'half-bloods,' and 'blood-traitors.' From several, it was clear that Snape was in fact the ringleader of the attacks, though it was unclear how he, a half-blood, had ascended to the top of the snake pit when his year-mates were the very definition of pureblood elite.

Needless to say, James and the other Marauders had noticed the rash of bullying, and their retaliatory pranking took on a new and darker edge. Several times Filius was obliged to punish them severely for a dangerous prank, even though he knew that their target had been a particularly vicious bully who had simply escaped notice or censure by the other staff.

It was this year that they debuted their animagus names: their studies had shown them their forms, though they were still working on manifesting them. While in past years, the debut of"Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs" would have been an occasion for cheerful and colorful pranks, this year it was a practical necessity. Security through anonymity: the bullies can't retaliate if they don't know who they're up against.

As Snape's role as ringleader became clear, more and more of the Marauder's wrath was turned on him. It was a particularly humiliating prank involving ostensibly innocuous first year charms that led to Snape diving headlong into his Charms studies, determined to never be caught so unawares.

It struck me, as we neared the end of the evening, that in many ways Snape's path to power had mirrored Tom Riddle's. They both entered Hogwarts as relatively unknown half-bloods in a house of elitist purebloods. They were both friendless and abused (though Riddle's case is unclear), but let their suffering turn them into bullies. They had both fought their way to prominence by dominating their age-mates, and thereafter had a cadre of purebloods sworn to fight at their backs.

And to cinch the parallels, they had both constructed high-sounding pseudonyms out of their names: Riddle had become Lord Voldemort, while Snape became the Half-Blood Prince.

Had Voldemort not arisen that decade as the latest Dark Lord, it is entirely possible Snape would have taken that mantle for himself. That outcome might still result after Voldemort was defeated.

But at last the memories of Fourth Year had concluded, and the situation was clear to us both. Hogwarts had begun to resemble more and more the war that ravaged the country without.

* * *

**A/N**: More responses to select reviews, listed by user name and ID (if registered) or date (if unregistered).

**Lord of Bones** (8/1/12): I've tried to present a Marauder's-Era Hogwarts that realistically fits the world Rowling has created. It's the dawn of the First Wizarding War, and while students may be initially insulated from the horrors outside, that could not last. Thus, James' humiliation of Snape is in the context of both the war raging outside and Snape's own behavior: he is a bully, leading other bullies, who is virulently anti-Muggle (despite his thing with Lily) and who will join the Death Eaters practically the day after graduation. His friends are all children of Riddle's original followers (look it up!) So yes, James is slightly arrogant, and Snape uses that to portray him as a bully. But Lionheart makes the point that it is possible to tamper with memories, and Snape is a prime candidate to do so.

**The Dain** (id:2786426): I didn't want to weigh down the last chapter with technical details, but here's the gist of it: the magical residue in the subconscious is basically compressed memory. This enables incredibly detailed memories to be stored en masse, but makes retrieval of those memories a practical impossibility, unless you are assisted by a pensieve or (in Lockhart's case) a specialized memory charm. However! Your theory of how pensieves work would be fascinating to see in another fic. A constrained time-travel device a la holodeck? Make it happen!

**Britael** (id:1648801): You make a fair point. The reason I introduce 'magical theory-craft' is because I'm interested in creating a relatively realistic world within the constraints of a fantasy environment. In fantasy and sci-fi, rules define how characters interact with their environment, so understanding it (at least to some extent) is fairly necessary. Plus, Lockhart's already bent a few rules with his memory charms - by looking more closely at the theory, other innovations might arise as well.

**The Dain** (id:2786426): Yes, regarding Snape, I am not a fan. But I don't consider him the main antagonist, merely another obstacle. Dumbledore is the one who holds all the power, and he is the one enabling Snape to retain his position and create so much misery and so many problems for Wizarding society. It's clear Snape despises both Voldemort and Dumbledore, while finding himself serving them both. He might wind up an unwitting ally or 'strange bedfellow' for Lockhart (still no slash!), but for the most part I envision they'll generally just find themselves at odds.

**LordsFire **(id:2503838): I'm a big fan of your efforts in "Brutal Harry" to make the Harry Potter characters psychologically realistic. Thank you for reading. Veteran authors are always welcome to offer their suggestions.

**Kalepos** (id:1089230): Dang. You're right. Erm... okay, quick ret-con: that's one of the changes between the HP muggle world and our own, Britain has retained the old incomprehensible money system. Sorry about that.


	8. Answers from Animagi

Gilding the Son of Lily  
By Publicola

* * *

**Answers from Animagi**

I looked down again at the letter in my hands.

_Mr. Lockhart,_

_We have learned of your unsolicited favor to our Nation, and of your request for the services of one of our more talented Curse Breakers, a Mr. William Weasley. Should you desire it, the wizard will await you in Conference Room D at 8 o'clock tomorrow morning. Please confirm if this is your wish._

_Though honor bids us thank you for your work with Mr. Cresswell, we hope you will cease in your efforts to push us further in your debt._

_May you die gloriously in the field of battle._

_Ragnok Ironshard_

Huh.

Filius arrived by Floo at his usual time. I hardly noticed.

"What do you have there, Gilderoy?"

Now I looked up. "Is it a good thing or a bad thing when goblins wish you to die gloriously?"

He took the note I offered him. "…field of battle. I see." He chuckled. "It's one of the rarer salutations, I can tell you that. They still loathe you – but you're a wizard, so no surprise there – but this means they respect you enough to wish you a good death. I suppose it's like saying 'we'd think of you fondly, but only if you were dead.' For a Clan leader writing to a wizard, that's positively friendly."

"You mean... they like me?" I ironically enthused.

He snorted. "Fair enough."

"Damn goblins give me a headache." I groused.

"You're not alone there. I have part-goblin blood, and even I feel the same way sometimes." He paused in thought. "I suppose this means that you're cancelling for tomorrow, right?"

"Unfortunately so. I have commitments that will occupy that evening as well. That actually reminds me – I wrote to Professor McGonagall the same day I wrote you, and she invited me over for tea this afternoon. You don't mind if we—?"

"No, not at all. In fact, I can key you in to the Floo in my office so you won't have to walk from Hogsmeade, how's that?"

"Thanks, that's very kind of you."

"Not a problem, really. Now, shall we start on Fifth Year?"

"Let me send them a response first. If you could get the memories ready?"

He left to extract the memories we'd be viewing, while I replied to Ragnok's letter, thanking him for his prompt reply and confirming that I would indeed present myself at Gringotts the next morning. I was sorely tempted to end the letter with something like "May you be crushed to death beneath a pile of galleons," but decided against it. Don't want to inadvertently start a war or something.

I made a mental note to read up on goblin history and culture.

Passing the letter off to Ozymandias, I entered the newly christened pensieve room, and we turned to the business of watching memories from Fifth Year.

* * *

Fifth Year began as the Fourth had ended: Hogwarts deep in the throes of an understated war, the next generation of Death Eater against the future fighters for the Light. Snape retained his place in the snake pit, while the Marauders continued their campaign against him and his cronies.

Despite their anonymity as Marauders, however, the four Gryffindors soon realized that Snape had decided to target them. At first it seemed to be merely an offensive against two wayward heirs of Ancient Houses. It soon became clear, however, that Snape's vendetta was more personal. No, this was at least partly about Lily.

In keeping tabs on the Gryffindor four, Snape had let his attention wander from Sirius and James to another member of their group. Snape had noticed Remus' mysterious disappearance on the night of September 20th, and again on October 20th. He had not yet made the connection – that both were nights of the full moon – but none of them doubted he would do so soon.

The Ministry had classified transformed werewolves as extremely dangerous dark creatures (Class XXXXX), and only near-human in their natural state: thus, unworthy of a magical education. While Filius and a few other members of staff were aware of Remus' condition, the young werewolf had not registered with the Ministry for fear of expulsion. If discovered, however, that would be the best he could hope for: a snapped wand and a swift kick in the pants back to the war raging beyond the grounds. But that was not the only possible outcome. If caught, it was not inconceivable that he would face execution.

The four Gryffindors could no longer afford to treat this as a mere annoyance. Snape had become a true menace. Yet even Marauders were stymied. Against such a dogged adversary, there was little they could do, and nothing further came of it until the following month.

Only by chance had Filius witnessed the first part of the story, and could thus share his memory of it.

It was Tuesday evening, November 18th, and Filius was working out of his office near the base of the West Tower. Shortly before curfew, Filius first heard then saw two students walking up to the Owlery: Sirius was escorting his latest conquest, Catherine MacMillen. In reality, the young lady was a long-time friend of the Potters who Sirius had met over the previous summer.

Sirius' reputation as a ladies' man was severely over-exaggerated, probably by design.

Filius noticed them through the door and was about to return his attention back to his desk when he noticed two things in quick succession: one, the two were walking rather oddly, and two, something shifted in the shadows behind them. They were being followed, and they knew it.

Filius waited a few moments to let them pass, then cast a disillusionment charm on himself to observe and (if need be) intervene. He soon learned that the eavesdropper was Severus Snape.

About half-way up the stairs Sirius began to speak in an oddly amplified voice, and Filius could tell he was putting on a show.

Now, for a Slytherin, Snape could be extraordinarily gullible. That held true especially when you start throwing around phrases like "secret weapon," "Remus' project," and "tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow."

Yep, turns out Sirius' plan was basically the same one Hermione had when she brought Umbridge into the Forest in Fifth Year.

Now, for such a clever man, Filius' intellect failed spectacularly at that moment. He knew that Remus was kept in the Shrieking Shack during his transformation – he had not been told, but it was not a hard deduction to make. He did not, however, make the connection that the Shack could be accessed by a tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow, nor (more problematically) did he recall that this was the night of the full moon. He simply surmised that this was the Marauders' just retaliation against Snape, and let the matter rest.

That complacency lasted until 11:31pm, when he heard the first keening howl. Another moment sent Filius careening out of the room, realizing his error and cursing the Black scion for the folly of sending Snape into such a trap.

There was quite a tableau awaiting him beneath the Willow. Snape and Potter lay outstretched beside each other, both breathing heavily. Snape's robes were torn, and James held a piece of them in his hands. Peter and Sirius soon came into view as well, escorting McGonagall and Dumbledore from the castle.

The tale was told. Sirius had bragged of his improvised prank to his fellow Marauders, only for James to object – either out of concern for Snape (death might be pushing their rivalry a bit too far) or for Lupin (whose role might be uncovered if there were an inquiry). James immediately set off after Snape, while Peter (true to form) ratted them out to McGonagall. Snape had entered the Shrieking Shack and seen the transformed werewolf, shortly before being hustled away from the jaws of death by his rival James Potter.

Lupin was not the only one frothing at the mouth that evening.

Snape was livid, deranged, ranting against them all. Dumbledore remained calm but unyielding in the face of Snape's demands that the werewolf be executed for endangering the son of a noble house (he had evidently discovered his mother's heritage). Snape kept going on and on about his status and rights as a Prince, until finally James' patience broke.

"Fine! You insist on playing these games, throwing around your newfound name? Then stand and receive. I, James Charlus, scion and heir of House Potter, do acknowledge the formation of a life debt owed to me by Severus Snape, scion of a lesser house. Is the debt countenanced?"

It seemed as though Snape struggled to breathe for several seconds, before resigning himself. "It is."

"I require a boon."

In the memory, Sirius and Peter were standing mouths agape at James' display, while Dumbledore and Filius had to keep McGonagall from intervening. In this, the House of your blood took precedence over the House of your sorting, and interference would not be looked kindly upon.

Snape struggled for a few moments, but at last he breathed again, saying through clenched teeth. "What do you want?"

"That you never speak of what you have seen tonight, nor inform anyone not present here of Remus Lupin's status as a werewolf, so long as the debt you owe to House Potter remains."

Snape stiffened, and I could see him struggle, but the compulsion took.

The rest of the memory sped by. Snape raged impotently as Dumbledore offered words of approval to James and to a lesser extent Peter for how they'd dealt with the situation. McGonagall made her extreme displeasure known to Sirius with a tongue-lashing, a two-week detention, and the promise of many more in the future.

* * *

My mind was awhirl as we withdrew from the pensieve.

Glitzy laid out lunch for us, and we ate in silence as I processed it all.

It had always bothered me how, in the third book, Sirius had so brazenly defended his potentially lethal prank against Snape. But now, I could understand his point. It was basically a slightly premeditated version of Hermione's bluff against Umbridge, when she tried to force a confrontation between her and the centaurs or with Hagrid's half-brother Grawp.

This memory had also made sense out of another point that had long puzzled me about the third book. In the confrontation in the Shrieking Shack, Snape had been hiding beneath the Invisibility Cloak for most of the conversation between Sirius and Remus. He knew that Sirius was no danger to Harry. Yet he insists again and again that he was saving Harry's life. So why the self-delusion? The life-debt explained it: if he could repay the debt (or fool himself into thinking he had done so), the compulsion would unravel and Snape could seek justice for the attempt on his life. Dumbledore probably kept him from dragging Lupin before the Ministry executioner, but there was nothing to stop him from exposing Lupin as a werewolf and thus forcing him to resign.

Finishing the midday meal, we returned to the pensieve.

* * *

Over the next month of memories, we beheld a renewed power struggle between the Houses. Snape had discovered a new enemy, a known enemy, one that could be reached, unlike those damnably anonymous Marauders. He began to lash out against James and his friends, who responded in kind. Pranks became increasingly vicious, and it was all the professors could do to shield the non-combatants.

Lily did not understand the reason for such a dramatic shift, and began to distance herself from her Gryffindor study partners out of loyalty to her old friend, however cold he had become.

Filius noted that the Marauders' study habits had somehow intensified, especially in Transfiguration. It was clear that the near-miss had made James that much more determined to become an animagus. No doubt a large part of that was to ensure his own safety for future encounters, but I could easily guess at another reason. James did not want Remus cooped up in a place where he could be so easily discovered.

It was not for pleasure that they left the safe confines of the Shrieking Shack. It was to preserve Lupin's secret.

All four had made the decision to remain at Hogwarts over Christmas. Filius confided that, though it had taken him several more months to figure out precisely what had changed, it was in the first week of break that he noticed something was different. Now he could point out the missed cues he had subconsciously noted. Peter was unchanged, but the features of both James and Sirius were somehow altered. The changes were subtle, in the cheekbones or hairline, but were clear enough in retrospect. The two had just completed their first full animagus transformations.

The final memory Filius shared was from the following week: Thursday evening, December 18th, the last full month of the year. In the memory Filius passed by a window on his way to retire for the night, just as a howl broke through the cold air. "Pause." There in the distance, at the edge of the woods, were the far-away figures of a wolf, a grim, and a stag, free and unfettered for the first time.

"I suspected…" he broke the silence as we exited the bowl. "I suspected they were but never knew – and to see them!"

I nodded breathlessly: it had been a truly inspiring sight.

* * *

By then it was early afternoon, and time for me meet with Professor McGonagall. Filius went through first, to key me in to the Floo in his office.

He was already at his desk when I arrived through the flames. "I'll get some paperwork done while I wait for you. You'll use my office to return?"

"If you'll allow it."

"Certainly."

It was a long walk between Filius' office in the West Tower and McGonagall's office just off the Grand Stairway. As I ventured through corridors and courtyards, I wondered how the upcoming conversation would proceed.

My stated reason for this visit was to discuss teaching, to learn from her half-century of experience.

Of course, that was the same reason I used for seeking out Filius, and look how that turned out. No, though I was interested in what she could teach me about being a Professor, I was far more interested to see if she would be of use to me, or if she would get in my way.

The books present Minerva McGonagall as an excellent teacher and a 'stern but fair' Head of House. On the surface, she even appears sympathetic to Harry's plight. On the other hand, she is one of the most consistently useless characters in the series, right up there with Remus Lupin.

Let's face the facts. She knew that the Dursleys were unfit guardians for Harry, but let Dumbledore run roughshod over her objections. In first year she sent him on that ridiculous life-endangering detention in the Forbidden Forest. On the two occasions he brought her a major problem – Philosopher's Stone in first year, the Blood Quill in fifth year – she ignored or disregarded his concerns. And not once did she address the rampant harassment and bullying that Harry faced, especially in second or fourth year.

Then there's her most grievous failure: the decision (made by practically every adult in Harry Potter's life) to withhold information about his godfather. You know, the presumed mass-murdering family betrayer bent on escaping Azkaban (check), evading a nationwide manhunt (check), infiltrating Hogwarts (check), kidnapping Harry (check) and doing away with him… oh, wait, he was innocent all along. Honestly, it's like deciding not to tell someone that the mob is after them. Even if the mob wasn't, the fact that everyone thought they were, but didn't even tell the person in the crosshair about the danger, tells you all you need to know.

I idly wondered if she was affected by some sort of compulsion. That'd be a convenient excuse: potentially useful adult hamstrung by mind-control potions. I mentally shrugged. It's plausible, but far too pat. Maybe I'd set her up with a healer to make sure, but in the meantime, it's safer to just assume she's too far in Dumbledore's pocket to see anything but lint.

I caught my breath outside her door, then rapped once, twice.

A few seconds later it swung open, and I beheld the stern visage of my old Transfiguration Professor.

I gulped involuntarily.

"Mr. Lockhart." Her Scottish brogue sounded somehow flat. "Please, come in." She returned to the other side of her desk. "Tea?"

Might as well. "Please."

She clapped her hand, and an elf popped in with a service. She reached over to pour a cup for each of us. "I can't say how glad I was to receive your letter." She didn't sound particularly glad at all. "Our recent spate of Defense Professors have been less than satisfactory, so it's good to meet one who takes genuine interest in the art of teaching." She paused, "Cream and sugar?"

God yes. "Certainly."

She continued. "I trust you understand my reasons for declining your original request. Memories can be intensely private, and I did not feel comfortable sharing mine with a stranger. I mean no offense," she added abruptly. "I rarely have time for students outside my House. You were in my class, but not one of my Lions, so I don't know you that well."

I could tell a biting remark was on her tongue, something like "and what I heard, I did not like." I appreciated her restraint. "Of course, ma'am. Frankly, with your invitation I felt I had the better of it. Mere memories would be far inferior, far more impersonal, than the insight you could share in person."

I will say this for Lockhart: the man knew how to flatter.

A smile played at the corner of her mouth as she responded. "Why thank you, Mr. Lockhart. So where would you like to begin?"

I paused in thought. "Well, I guess this is more a question for your as Deputy Headmistress. During the interview Dumbledore promised to send me a copy of the staff handbook in the week before classes begin. I was hoping it might be possible for me to get it now? I'd like to review it thoroughly."

Her eyebrows shot up, "Of course! I'm afraid it's rather sparse, but… let me see…" she turned and rifled through some of her shelves. "Here we are. You can borrow my copy until you get your own. I'll hold onto yours, and will give it to you when you return mine. Just be sure to get it back before classes begin. Sounds fair?"

"Deal!" I cheerily replied. "Say… I can't help but wonder if there's any other paperwork that might come in handy. You wouldn't have a copy of the Hogwarts Charter or anything?"

Her lips thinned. "I have a copy, but they are only given to the Headmaster, Deputy, and Board of Governors. I cannot give it to you without permission. As for your other requests, I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific than that, Mr. Lockhart."

Strike one. "I understand. If I think of anything, I'll be sure to let you know." At least she pointed me in the right direction. I doubted either McGonagall or Dumbledore would be of much help here, so I'd probably wind up working with the Governors at some point. I moved on. "Along the same lines, I wonder if you could share your own experiences in dealing with your responsibilities… er, out of the classroom?"

She held me with her stare. "My responsibilities as Head of House and Deputy Headmistress seem rather far afield, Mr. Lockhart."

I chuckled to relieve the tension. "I suppose I am curious to ask how you balance the two roles, but I won't pry." Of course I wanted to pry, but knew it wouldn't go over well. "No, my question was solely about your extra-curricular duties as a teacher of Transfiguration."

"I'd have thought Dumbledore would have spoken of such things during your interview?"

Oh come on, work with me here! "Of course, he outlined the duties, but I was hoping you might share some of your experiences. How to balance various duties, which take the most time, how you fit detentions into your already busy schedule, that sort of thing?"

"Ah." Finally. "Well, taking them in order, I suppose my first piece of advice must be to schedule your time very carefully. As Deputy, I prepare the class schedules for the staff as well as students. You'll be getting yours before the Welcoming Feast, while students get theirs the next morning. Besides classes," she took a deep breath, "you'll be assigned several hours a week for rounds. I'm exempt, but Filius could probably advise you there. Most of the detentions you'll assign get passed to Filch or Pompfrey in the Hospital Wing, but sometimes you'll need to oversee them yourself. I recommend setting aside certain tasks – like cleaning out your classroom and preparing for the next day's lesson – as fodder for detentions. You're expected to take your meals each evening in the Great Hall, though not all of the staff do. Finally, you'll want to remember to give yourself plenty of time each night for grading assignments. Fall behind in your day-to-day tasks, and you'll have a devil of a time catching up."

The cynical part of me wondered if this was why she was so unhelpful to Harry in the series: she was so busy with her many roles that she literally had no time to care about a student's concerns.

The rest of me was just happy to have the information.

She continued, "Of course, most of the faculty set aside time for themselves, usually over the weekend. You'll have full access to the Library, if that's where your tastes lead, and your office has a private Floo if you need to leave the castle."

"Thank you, this is all very helpful." I paused. "Now for the academic side of things. I'm trying to figure out a baseline of what to expect from my students. I've already spoken with Filius about the Charms syllabus. I was hoping you might talk about the subjects you cover in Transfiguration for each year level."

She looked fairly impressed by this question. "Of course, of course." She pursed her lips in thought. "As you know, the emphasis in the early years is basic transformation, starting with inanimate objects that are basically similar, all the way up to animate transformations.

"Ah yes, I recall your demonstration. Raven to water goblet, wasn't it?"

Her smile broadened. "Indeed, though any animal works, it's just a matter of visualization."

"Indeed._ Fero Verta_ was the incantation, if memory serves? It's been a while since I've have to turn a pet into a dinner setting."

She choked a laugh. "Well done, Mr. Lockhart. Of course we are sure to teach untransfiguration to all years as a safety precaution – returning an object to its original state is far less taxing, but no less important. Now, from Third Year on we move up a level of difficulty by adding Switching Spells to our arsenal, and in Fourth Year we begin working with Vanishing. Of course in each of these we begin with simple inanimate objects and progressively increase the complexity and dissimilarity until OWL exams."

"Dissimilarity?"

"Do you not recall? It is one of the key principles of Transfiguration: the more dissimilar two objects are, the greater the magical energy and control required to make the transformation. You really should have paid more attention in class, Mr. Lockhart."

I shook my head, chastened. I probably ought to put more effort into enhancing Lockhart's memories from school.

"Now, it is only after students have proceeded to their NEWTs that we begin to teach them the advanced skills: Human Transfiguration, Conjuration and eventually Animation."

I began, "Forgive me, it's just…. You know I always struggled with theory, but is there a particular reason why the subjects are taught in that order? Such advanced skills seem extraordinarily useful."

"Dear me, Mr. Lockhart! Surely you should know – such skills as Switching and Vanishing require far more magical power than any First or Second Year could manage. We must wait until the adolescence for their cores to mature, you know."

No, I didn't, but then my predecessor was a lazy git. How did I make it into Ravenclaw? "I'm afraid I'd rather forgotten. Thank you for the reminder."

She gazed at me sternly. "You would do well to brush up on such things, young man. You must not overtax your students' magic, lest they suffer magical exhaustion. You wouldn't wish to be subjected to the tender mercies of Madame Pompfrey, would you?"

I paled. Yes, Lockhart had a fair few memories of the Hospital Wing, mostly from Quidditch injuries.

"I see that you remember her. As for the NEWT skills, they are far more temperamental than the rest, so we wait until after OWLs to ensure that any student who learns them is sufficiently proficient. You understand?"

"Yes. Thank you, actually."

"No problem. I hope you'll know what to expect from your students?" I nodded. "So then. What else would you care to discuss?"

"Well," I trailed off, struck by a sudden thought.

"Yes?"

"It's actually more of a personal query, but I can't help but wonder – have you ever taught the Animagus transformation to a student? I remember seeing you change that first class of my first year, and I still remember it with awe."

She smiled wanly. "Unfortunately, Mr. Lockhart, the process is highly regulated by the Ministry. Several of my students have expressed curiosity in the subject, but none succeeded. There are only seven registered animagi in the last century."

"And you are one of them. Most extraordinary."

"Thank you," she said with genuine warmth.

"So how did you pick up the skill?"

"Actually it was the Headmaster who taught me. He held this post during Dippet's tenure, and saw that I was something of a Transfiguration prodigy. We started after I completed my OWLs, and I finally succeeded just before taking my NEWTs. That's how I got my Mastery, in fact. My examiner counted the time I spent with Professor Dumbledore as my apprenticeship, and after I registered at the Ministry, I was sent the notice of my Mastery. It was one of the proudest days of my life."

I waited to let her collect herself. "Thank you for sharing that, Professor. I hope you don't mind another question?"

"No, go on."

"Thanks. I seem to recall covering the theory back in Third Year, but I was wondering if you could tell me some of the common signs for recognizing an animagus, in either form."

She paused. "That's actually a very good question. Most people know that the animal form will often have some sort of mark or distinguishing characteristic derived from the human form – distinctive eye or hair color, permanent scars or disfigurement would all qualify. However, it is not well known that the human form is often affected as well. Facial structure, teeth, and hair are all commonly affected, and cannot be magically altered. I know because I tried: my mouth and eyes were differently proportioned after my first transformation."

"Indeed. So – pardon the hypothetical – how would one set about identifying an animagus if you were not familiar with those distinguishing features?"

She looked at me suspiciously, but answered anyway. "Well, there is the Homorphus Charm, which returns a person back to their human form. That's a safety precaution we teach in Sixth Year when studying human transfiguration. Now, if you're just looking to ensure an animal isn't an animagus, the easiest method is _Hominem Revelio_. It registers the presence of any human mind, regardless of the body's form."

"Wonderful." I returned my teacup to the service. "Well, thank you for your hospitality. It was a pleasure speaking with you, and I hope to have more such conversations in the future."

"Indeed?" A single imperious eyebrow rose.

"Of course. This is my first time teaching, and while I can try to anticipate my areas of weakness, I have little doubt that within the first week I will seek out more veteran teachers for counsel."

She smiled warmly. Humility was not a quality she expected to see in Lockhart. "Of course. My office is always open to you, though do be so kind as to give me warning in case I'm with a student."

"Of course I shall." I rose. "And here if you'll permit I take my leave." I inclined my head, she returned the gesture, and we left it at that.

* * *

I hastened back to Filius' office. At last I had the excuse to deal with Pettigrew. Filius' door was open and I swept through. "You ready to continue?"

It was really quite comical, to contrast how old and decrepit he looked with how spryly he jumped up at my entrance. "Of course. After you?"

"Lockhart Hall!" I called and flames swirled around me.

A few seconds later and he appeared behind me. He immediately started for the pensieve room, "I hope your meeting with Minerva went as well as you'd hoped…" he looked back at me.

I had fallen behind him, appearing deep in thought. It was an act, but I'd had enough time on the walk to make it convincing. Occlumency was so useful. "Sorry. Just thinking…" I trailed off.

"Yes?"

"I'm sure it's nothing, but my conversation with McGonagall reminded me of something."

"What?"

I looked up. "How about I show you?" We arrived at the pensieve, and I quickly copied a brief excerpt from my time at the Burrow.

* * *

"_Scabbers?"_

_"The family rat…"_

"… _How old is it?_

"… _maybe twelve years now?"_

"…_Say, I wonder Ron would let me take a gander at it."_

"_Ronald! ... I say, it must be quite an extraordinary rat… I wondered if you'd be willing to part with it."_

"…_Three sickles?"_

"…_Three galleons!"_

"_Glitzy! Please fetch my money pouch and a cage. … Very good Ronald, and here are your galleons. Glitzy, please bring this cage back to my flat and keep an eye on it – I don't want the rat to escape."_

"_Glitzy will keep the rat-man as Master says!"_

"Pause."

* * *

Filius looked at me. "Rat-man? Your elf called it… oh my! You think it could be an animagus?"

"I'm not sure." I lied. "I was asking McGonagall if any of her students had become an animagus like her – she didn't know about James or Sirius, by the way – but what she said about recognizing one in its animal form reminded me of what my elf said. I brushed it off, but now…"

We withdrew from the memory. "Glitzy!"

He popped in. "Yes Master?"

"You remember the caged rat I gave you?"

"Of course Master. Glitzy has fed it and looked after it!"

"Where is it now?"

"Glitzy kept the rat-man in cupboard!"

I was sorely tempted to laugh. How ironic that Peter would briefly share Harry's fate. "Can you bring it – him – here please?"

As Glitzy popped back in with the cage, I was already casting.

"_Somnius_." Scabbers succumbed to unconsciousness.

I nodded at Filius, and took a deep breath. "_Hominem Revelio_."

Pinpricks of light shot out of my wand. One to me, one to Filius, and a third – we both breathed as the light moved towards the rat.

Filius sat heavily, "It's true, then. But who…?" He trailed off, deep in thought.

For a minute he examined the rat. Then he gasped and turned to me. "Twelve years, they said?"

Damn he's good!

"Yes, twelve years. Why, what do you see?"

He growled, his goblin hackles rising. "I see a missing finger, that's what."

I played dumb. "Missing finger?"

"Yes." He turned to me. "Yes. A single finger missing, on an animagus who's been hiding for twelve years. Think, Gilderoy! Who did we just learn had made the animagus transformation?"

"James Potter and Sirius Black."

"Exactly, and who else was in their little band?"

I allowed my eyes to widen, "Peter Pettigrew. You think—"

"Peter Pettigrew! Who is presumed to have died twelve years ago! Whose body was supposed to have been consumed by an explosion caused by Sirius Black, leaving behind—"

"A finger," I breathed.

"A finger!" He concluded proudly. "Gilderoy, I'm fairly sure the animagus in front of us is none other than Peter Pettigrew, the hero of—"

There it was.

He paled. "No! But that means…."

Again, I played dumb. "What?"

"Gilderoy," he looked me dead in the eye. "If this means what I think, Sirius Black is innocent."

Now it was my turn to sit heavily, though this information was hardly news for me. "Sirius Black, innocent? All these years? But Dumbledore said—"

In that moment our eyes met, and I knew he had reached the conclusion I had hoped. "Dumbledore!" his voice practically rumbled. I did not envy the Headmaster.

He took a deep breath. "This is beyond either of us. We need to involve Madame Bones."

I nodded. I turned to the table and grabbed a fresh piece of parchment.

_Amelia,_

_An urgent matter has come up. As soon as you find yourself free, please bring a vial of Veritaserum and magic-inhibiting handcuffs and Floo to "Lockhart Hall." I'll key you in. I will be waiting with Professor Filius Flitwick, an ally._

_Gilderoy_

I waved to Ozymandias. "This is a very urgent letter. You must make sure Amelia gets it and comes straight away. Go!" I propelled him toward the open window.

* * *

We only had to wait thirty minutes before a tormented-looking Amelia stepped through the Floo. "Gilderoy," she ground out. "What precisely was your intent in siccing your damned owl on me until I left through the Floo?"

My eyes widened slightly, and Filius burst into laughter. Amelia turned on him. "I'm sorry Amelia, it's just… I thought you were looking a bit hen-pecked, and here it turns out you were just owl-pecked!"

If she were a Veela, I had no doubt fireballs would be a-flying.

I hastily apologized. "Forgive me, I hadn't thought my instructions to Ozymandias would be taken so… literally. I'm afraid I got caught up in the moment."

"Fine. Now what the dickens you wanted to see me for? I brought the potion and manacles, though I don't know—"

"Amelia," Filius interrupted her, his face now grave, "we think we've captured Peter Pettigrew."

That stumped her. "Peter Pettigrew? What…" she turned to him. "What are you on about?"

And so he told her.

By the end Amelia was seething. "So you think Dumbledore may have—"

I cut in for the first time in the conversation. "It makes sense. Sirius Black is Harry Potter's godfather. He would have been the obvious choice to look after Harry after James and Lily died."

Her eyes widened, "Which he couldn't do if he were thrown in Azkaban. You think he would stoop so low?"

Now it was Filius' turn to cut in, "We'll never know unless we ask. You have the serum?"

"Of course."

"Wands out." He turned to the cage. "_Alohamora. Mobilicorpus_." He summoned the sleeping rat through the now-open door and set him on a chair. "Homorphus on three? One, two—"

The three of us cast together, and in that instant the chair was filled with the mangy form of Peter Pettigrew.

"_Mobilicorpus. Incarcerous_." Amelia cast twice, keeping Pettigrew's hands locked in front of him, and snapped on the handcuffs. "There, thank you Filius, Gilderoy. Now, let's see what he's hiding." She waved her wand in a complex motion over the prisoner's body – she paused, and nodded in seeming satisfaction when there was no result. She began again, a different series of motions and mutter incantations. This time as she finished something seem to vibrate beneath Pettigrew's outer robes. She tore them apart and gasped.

There in the lining were two wands: the first a gnarled stick of chestnut wood, the other made of polished yew, with a bone handle.

"They never found it at the scene," Amelia breathed as she reached out to touch the Dark Lord's wand.

Another instant and she shook herself. She plucked both out of Peter's cloak, placing them on the table. She turned to us, "Strip him. My charm only detected the one wand, so magical detection may miss anything else he has hidden on him. _Finite_." The ropes fell apart, and she levitated him out of the chair.

"_Diffindo._" "_Diffindo_." We cast cutters on the seams of his clothes, and they came off easily in our hands. Filius was practically gnashing his teeth when he discovered the Dark Mark on Pettigrew's left arm: faded it may be, but without a doubt identifiable.

Finally, Amelia returned Pettigrew to the chair and conjured clothes to cover him. _"Incarcerous_. He's secure. Potion first, or wake him now?"

I shrugged, "Your call."

Filius growled, "Wake him first. I want him to see how deep the shit he's stepped in."

Amelia grinned maliciously. "_Ennervate._"

The captive's eyes rolled open, his nose twitched, and he looked at each of us in turn. For a few seconds no one spoke, but then he noticed his very human arms locked in front of him. "What—!" He looked back at us, suddenly realizing he was bound in his human form in front of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

A light dawned somewhere in his head.

Before he could speak Filius grasped him by the neck and pulled his head backwards, holding his jaw open. "Amelia?"

She took out the vial and dumped its contents in his mouth. Filius pushed his jaw back and pinched Pettigrew's nose, forcing him to swallow. His eyes lost focus, and his expression became somehow vacant.

Amelia began the interrogation. "My name is Amelia Bones, acting in my capacity as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. This memory will be delivered and certified for the Auror Investigative Department. What is your name?"

"Peter Parker Pettigrew."

I nearly choked at hearing at his middle name. Seriously?

"When were you born?"

"The 15th of February, 1961."

Filius cut in. "Who was the Secret-Keeper for the Potter's residence in Godric's Hallow?"

"I was."

Amelia's eyebrows shot through the roof. "Wasn't Sirius Black the Secret-Keeper?"

"No."

She tried again. "Why wasn't Black the Secret-Keeper?"

"James wanted him to be, but Sirius felt he was too obvious a choice. He said no one would ever suspect they'd trust me with such a task." Even in a potion-induced haze, his resentment at Black came through loud and clear.

"Why did everyone believe Black was the Secret Keeper?"

"But we told them he was."

"We?"

"Everyone there when the decision was made."

I cut in impatiently, "Who was present when the decision was made?"

"James Potter, Lily Potter, Sirius Black, Albus Dumbledore."

Amelia seethed, "Dumbledore knew?"

"Yes."

Filius decided to help her, "Why was Dumbledore involved in the discussion?"

"He cast the Charm."

Amelia exploded, "Then why did he send Sirius to Azkaban?"

"I…" for the first time Peter hesitated. "I know not."

Filius caught his slip. "You suspect something?"

"Yes."

"What do you suspect?"

"That Dumbledore imprisoned Sirius because otherwise he would have been the Potter brat's guardian."

"Why would Dumbledore care about that?"

"Even before the Potters' death, Dumbledore seemed particularly interested in the Potter boy's fate."

I cut in, "Do you know why Harry Potter caught his attention?"

Peter seemed to resign himself. "A few days after the battle at Dunhill Farm, Dumbledore took James and Lily aside. They never told me, but I overheard James tell Sirius that Harry might be the subject of the prophecy, and that they'd decided to go into hiding."

Amelia held up her hand to stop my next question. "Do you know what the prophecy says?"

"No."

"Did you hear anything else about the prophecy?"

"Only that it might apply to another infant."

"What infant?"

"Neville Longbottom."

Amelia paused in thought. "What would connect a prophecy to one of those two boys?"

"I…" Peter stopped. "They were born several hours apart in the same ward at St. Mungo's."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Amelia taking notes, so I stepped up. "Where did you hear that the prophecy might apply to Neville Longbottom?"

"From the Dark Lord."

Amelia and Filius gasped. I pressed on, "When did you hear this from the Dark Lord?"

"When I told him of the conversation I overheard."

Filius looked outraged, "So you told him the prophecy!"

"No."

Filius hadn't expected that. "No?"

"No, I wasn't the one who told him about the prophecy?"

I cut in, "So who did?"

"I was not told."

"So the Dark Lord knew of the prophecy before you spoke to him?"

"Yes."

"How do you know this?"

"He expected the Potters to go into hiding after the battle at Dunhill Farm, and mentioned the prophecy as the reason. That's when he mentioned the Longbottom boy, as that family had gone into hiding for the same reason shortly after the Ceredigion raid earlier that year."

Amelia's scribbling intensified. Filius and I glanced at each other as we gathered our thoughts.

"So. You are a Death Eater?"

"Yes."

"For how long have you been a Death Eater?"

"Since the Imbolc Revel, early February, the year after I graduated Hogwarts."

I scanned Lockhart's memories. "The Imbolc… Revel?"

"The Dark Lord follows the old traditions. He welcomed the spring with a fertility offering."

Uh oh. "A fertility off—"

Amelia cut in, "Gilderoy you don't—"

Before either of us could finish, Peter answered. "He commanded each of his Inner Circle to sacrifice one of the virgin muggle girls he had captured. The rest of us watched." He sounded almost proud.

I felt sick to my stomach. Filius was the one to speak. "So you watched as they raped these girls."

"Yes."

"How old were they?"

Damn Filius, must you? "They all looked to be between 14 and 18."

"And what happened to them?"

"Afterwards he ordered the new recruits to torture them and slit their throats." Peter moved as if to raise his arm. "That's how I earned my Mark."

Though her eyes were clouded in rage, Amelia was still scribbling like mad. Peter's testimony was a fount of information, especially considering I doubt any of the captured Death Eaters would have been subjected to Veritaserum. Malfoy's bribes and the Minister's corruption would have seen to it.

"Is that how all Death Eaters won their Mark?"

Peter thought, "Some were rewarded with the Mark for feats in battle or on special occasions. Most of the recruits received it during on the Revels, however."

I finally pulled myself together. "How long had you been in the Dark Lord's service before taking your Mark?"

"Since December 14th of the previous year."

"What happened that day?"

"I was abducted from Knockturn Alley and brought before the Dark Lord. I was given a choice, to either die or serve him as a spy. I chose to live."

Filius queried, "Why didn't you tell the Order, or any of your friends?"

"I felt they wouldn't protect me."

Filius was about to press on, but Amelia cut him off. "Wait: couldn't, or wouldn't?"

"Wouldn't."

"Why wouldn't they?"

"Because none of them respected me! None of them saw me as anything but a lackey, a bootlicker!" Even under truth serum, his anguish came out.

"Is that why you gave your allegiance to the Dark Lord?"

"Yes, he respected me, he gave me his power. He trusted me, trusted me to spy for him, to do his bidding." Even under truth serum, he honestly believed it. It sounded almost like Stockholm Syndrome—

"Did the Dark Lord ever put you under the Cruciatus?"

His chin jutted up, "No, not once, though he often let me watch him punish his less faithful servants when they failed him."

That's it, then. The Wizarding world may not understand psychology, but Tom Riddle certainly did. Perhaps it was because he was raised in a muggle orphanage. Still, the Dark Lord's mind tricks would not save Peter Pettigrew from facing justice.

Amelia started gathering her notes. One last thought struck me. "You said you were abducted from Knockturn Alley – what were you doing there in the first place?"

"I was pawning off some of the silver I'd taken from Potter Manor."

Even after all I'd heard, I was still surprised to hear Peter confess to petty theft. On the other hand, it fit the profile: a weak individual latching onto a powerful one (and trading 'masters' as circumstances changed), starting with small wrongs before they led up to bigger ones, so long as there was opportunity, pressure, and some way to rationalize it. The Fraud Triangle applies to all sorts of crimes.

After waiting several seconds, Amelia took out her wand. "I think we've got enough for now. _Somnius_. Filius, I take it you're oathbound?" He nodded. "Good. Can you transfigure him back to his rat form? With the magic-locking manacles and a reinforced cage, I doubt he'd be a flight risk. I'll keep him at my house, if you don't mind. That way I'll have access to him if we have further questions."

She looked at me as though it were a request. It was good to see her take charge like this. "Of course. I'll warrant your house'd be safer than mine."

"Right. I'll share the memory with Hestia so she can start her investigation. I'll have her pull up the records on Sirius Black. We need to figure out how he was sent to Azkaban, when he was innocent of the Potter's betrayal." Her lips curled back in a grimace that was almost a grin. "I don't imagine the Headmaster will be too pleased to learn we're making inquiries. We'll have to keep this under wraps, at least until we figure out what Dumbledore's game is."

Filius looked as if he were about to say something, but shook his head and bade Amelia farewell. After gathering her things and her wayward rat, she left through the Floo, calling out: "The Ossuary!"

Huh.

Is that a thing for purebloods? Weasels live in a burrow. Bones get sent to an ossuary. Lovegoods live in a rookery - that is, a breeding ground. What's next, should I be expecting the Floo address for Potter Manor to actually be "The Kiln"?

Filius turned to me after she had disappeared through the flames. "I didn't want to say it in front of her, but given Dumbledore's involvement in this, I very much doubt that legal channels will suffice to get Mr. Black out of Azkaban any time soon."

I caught the word he had emphasized. "'Legal' channels?"

He nodded meaningfully. "You know how dementors affect them. Black will need time to recover before he'll be in any position to take care of Harry Potter, and we need him to get the kid away from his abusive relatives. If legal channels can't do it…"

I finished, "We just might stage a jailbreak."

* * *

**A/N**:More responses to select reviews.

**Ladysavay** (id:1484481): Considering how often Harry winds up in the Hospital Wing, I always did wonder why he wasn't given a more thorough check-up. Did anyone think there might be side effects to having basilisk venom in your bloodstream (it took a few minutes before the phoenix tears neutralized it)? And what about the curse scar/soul fragment? So yeah, Madame Pompfrey is another contestant in the "Most Useless Adult" magical sweepstakes.

**Clint_Sanderson** (id:2604060): Thanks! As you can tell from my "Wait, What?" one-shots, I tend to be pretty cynical about the Harry Potter universe. I'm beginning to feel like this story is my way of addressing those gaping plot-holes without becoming too dark or depressing.

**Reader_anonymous_writer** (id:2788678): Sorry to burst the bubble, but canon portrays Snape as pretty much the quintessential bully. Now, I know he's one of the most intriguing and versatile characters that Rowling wrote, and I know Rowling tried to redeem him in the end. But he's still "the undisputed king of childish assholes" (LordBones, for the win). Shakespeare wrote many villains with whom we can empathize - doesn't mean they're no longer villains, though. Check out my one-shot "Safer With The Convict" for more along these lines.

**Katzztar** (id:163355): I think "Dark Lord Snape" is unlikely (especially once he's caught between Dumbledore and Voldemort). But wouldn't it be a grand idea of a fic? You could start with a first-year AU reveal that it really is Snape in front of the Mirror of Erised, ret-con that Voldemort really was vanquished that Halloween, and go from there. I tend to shy away from Snape-centric fics, so I don't know of any that follow this sort of pattern. Anyone?

**v** (8/7/12): Yes, the religious epiphany of Black sisters was one of the more off-putting plot points of "My Gilded Life." It wasn't that it was poorly written - it was felt so dissociated from the rest of the story. As for your broader point, though, in a world where supernatural things (like magic) are considered natural, it'd be that much harder to identify anything as supernatural. But that's not an argument against religion in a magical world, so much as it is a play on words.

**Nobodez** (id:1760547): The reference to "shillings" was my own mistake, though I ret-conned it as one of the differences between this world and our own. As for Wormtail, I was waiting for the right excuse to bring it up, as you see above. I don't want to over-rely on future knowledge, especially when characters like Filius or Amelia could easily grow suspicious.

**Mongo** (8/10/12): My first thought on reading your review was "Holy crap, this is great." I was already thinking something along the lines of physical conditioning, but I'll definitely be incorporating some of your other points as well. Very useful ideas all around.


	9. Dealing with Diaries

Gilding the Son of Lily  
By Publicola

Disclaimer: I still rate this fic "T" for language. I changed the public rating to "M" as a precaution.

* * *

**Dealing with Diaries**

We turned in for the night shortly thereafter, and it was early morning before I knew it. As was my custom, I checked my post over breakfast.

_Mr. Lockhart,_

_Thank you for your note. My work at St. Mungo's precludes me from meeting you during the week, but there is no such obstacle to meeting this weekend. Therefore, my husband and I would cordially invite you for tea on the afternoon of Sunday the 16__th__. As a solicitor he has some training in the Occlumentic arts, and has agreed to your request to be bound by oath._

_Kindly respond if the date works to your satisfaction._

_Andromeda Tonks_

I responded, agreeing to the date and thanking her for taking such precautions before informing her husband. I was amused by her mildly defensive tone, in presenting her husband's involvement as a _fait accompli_, but I could certainly appreciate her taking the initiative.

By the time I finished checking the mail, the time was ten minutes to 8, so I handed the one to Ozymandias, grabbed the other for drop-off at the Diagon Dispatch, and Flooed out to the Leaky Cauldron.

I arrived in the lobby of Gringotts with a few minutes to spare. "Excuse me," I motioned over a goblin, "could you kindly direct me to Conference Room D? I have an appointment, you see, with—"

"Ah, shaddup an' follow me."

You learn something new every day. Turns out goblins **really** aren't morning people.

Of course, if I complained about the poor customer service, the goblin would probably get a promotion for pissing off a wizard. So I held my peace and followed.

The conference room in question was down several dimly lit corridors and abrupt corners. I felt like I was walking into an alley to be mugged. Bastards probably designed it that way. But I was soon shown the door and left to enter on my own.

Bill Weasley was nearer my own age than I expected. I knew he was Arthur's eldest son, but hadn't realize the time gap between him and his siblings. He was only 6 or so years younger than me– he'd probably finished First Year around the time I had graduated.

He walked over to me extending his hand. "Mr. Lockhart! It's a pleasure to meet you. Gornuk mentioned you had requested this meeting, though I'm surprised he managed to pull me from Egypt so quickly. You must have some influence with the Clans."

I shrugged, grinning. "I may have done Ragnok a favor or two."

I nearly laughed at the incredulous look he shot me. "The Clan leader owes you a favor? Merlin, Mr. Lockhart! No wonder they got me here so fast. Ragnok must be pissed!"

Now I did laugh. "Yes, I got that sense. Oh, and call me Gilderoy."

"All right, Mr. – Gilderoy, what'd you need me for? Gornuk told me I'm assigned to you for the day."

"First things first – does your employment at Gringotts prevent you from taking confidentiality oaths for clients?"

"Not at all." At that he drew his wand in a single swift motion and swore the oath. It was remarkably airtight. "Standard policy," he informed me as the wisps of light settled. "Goblins do not abide traitors, and magical oaths are the best way of ensuring that. Gornuk will be the only one to see my report, and he's bound to abide by the same terms I just gave."

"Very well. Mr. Weasley, as you may have heard. I will be the new Defense Professor this year at Hogwarts. When I made the announcement a few days ago, I noticed that a cursed object had been planted with the school supplies of one of my students. I retrieved it, but did not feel competent to deal with it on my own." He nodded knowingly – curse breaking was a hazardous profession. "I've kept it stored in my flat, so you'll have to follow me there."

"Wait, it's just lying around?" Bill sounded slightly panicked.

"No no, I have it in a covered bronze cauldron."

"Magically insulated." He looked relieved. "Well done."

"Does Gringotts have a Floo, or will we need to take the ones by the Leaky Cauldron?"

"There's the employee Floo in the back that clients can use if accompanied."

"Very well. Show the way?"

He slung his gear across his back and led me out into the corridors. "By the way, if I can call you Gilderoy, then surely you can call me Bill."

"If you insist."

He chuckled. "Mum would go spare if she knew I was working with you. She's a big fan of yours."

"I know, I've met her," I said with chagrin.

"Oh?"

"Last week, at a book signing."

"Ah." We entered a room with wall-to-wall fireplaces. "Here we are."

"I'll need to key you in on the other side."

"Naturally. The Floo address?"

I took the powder, "Lockhart Hall" and stepped through.

A minute later he stepped out after me. "Nice place."

"Thank you. Glitzy!"

_Pop!_ "Yes Master?"

"Please bring me the cauldron where I placed the diary. Oh, and bring the other diary I purchased as well."

Bill's eyebrows raised, "Diary?"

"Have a seat and I'll tell you." Glitzy popped back with both items. "I purchased a replica of the cursed object in case I needed to use a switching spell to retrieve it. It wasn't necessary, but it's a useful prop." I tossed it to him; his eyebrows shot up as he examined it in his hands. "As it you can, it's an old school book belonging to a Tom Marvolo Riddle. Are you familiar with the name?" He shook his head. "It's the birth name of the man commonly known as Lord Voldemort."

His eyes widened and his breath quickened. He soon calmed down, though, and his brow furrowed in thought. "Marvolo… Volde…" he looked up. "It's an anagram, isn't it? The only unused letters are M, A, and I… and those could just go at the beginning. 'I am Lord Voldemort'?"

Damn, he reminded me of Filius. "How'd you get that so fast?"

"Cryptography's a big part of being a curse-breaker. A lot of Egyptian wizards went for that sort of thing, though their idea of a riddle would more often involve sphinxes, embalming curses, and a metric shitload of sand."

I chuckled. "Sand?"

"You have no idea." He set the diary aside. "Anything else I should know?" I shook my head. "Right then." He took out two dragon-hide gloves and slid them on. Reaching over, he began to gently ease the cover off the cauldron, pausing momentarily when the hermetic seal broke. He nodded towards me, "There's a weak compulsion charm, probably meant to have a gradual effect."

"How—?" I felt nothing.

"Curse-breaker, remember? We train ourselves to be sensitive to these things."

Impressive. "Huh."

He set the cover aside and lifted the diary out by hand. Setting it on the table, he began to cast, barely pausing for breath as he murmured incomprehensible words and moved his wand in an intricate dance. At first there was nothing, but then I saw pulses of light shoot from his wand to the diary. The initial pulses seemed to have no effect, but soon the diary began to react, glowing or vibrating as each pulse struck. I glanced back at the Curse-Breaker, whose face had rapidly gone pale.

Finally, with the last burst of light from the diary, Bill stopped and stared numbly at the book. "Shit." He turned to me with the vacant expression, honestly at a loss for words. "This… well damn."

"What is it?"

He shook himself. "Mr. Lockhart – Gilderoy – I know in this case you're the client, but… I wouldn't feel right sharing this information unless you took a secrecy oath yourself."

"That bad?"

"Worse."

I considered it for a second. I had plans to tell others, Filius at least, about the horcruxes, but I needed the information he could give me. "How about this – I won't share the information you provide with anyone who isn't bound by a vow of secrecy? I'm working quite closely with a number of other individuals who are all oathbound."

He thought for a second, "You trust them?"

"As far as I trust anyone these days," I said glibly.

He snapped, "Cut the crap, Gilderoy. I've only faced this sort of magic once before, but it was the blackest stuff I'd ever seen."

I nodded, more seriously this time. "Yes. I trust them."

"Good. Make your oath."

As the wisps of light settled over me, I found it was actually something of a relief to know that Bill took this information as seriously as he did.

"All right. While you still have your wand out, there's a very simple charm I'd like you to cast."

I coughed, "Pardon?"

"The incantation is _Hominem Revelio_ – I trust you're familiar with it?"

"Of course," I sniffed. Before he could respond, I incanted the spell. Pinpricks of light shot out: once, twice – thrice? I turned to Bill with a question in my eye, Occlumency ensuring my surprise was genuine. "How—?"

"Have you ever wondered why men like me still have a job? Curse-breakers have been working in Egypt for centuries, so how are there still tombs and treasures waiting to be found?"

I looked at him carefully. "I never considered it. I suppose…" I trailed off.

"Of course. Settle in, it's a long story. You see, Egyptian tombs are unlike any others you can find, for Egyptian mages specialized in a particularly dark form of magic – namely, the magic of the soul. It was this specialty that enabled them to place semi-sentient defenses around their crypts, summon the first dementors, and judge their enemies' souls. When the Olympian mages finally rose against the tyrants we now call Titans, it was by Egyptian magic that the fallen souls were cast into the prison Tartarus. Ironic, that in the end it was mages from Greece who toppled the Egyptian legacy."

I stopped him, "But how could Egypt fall, with such power at their disposal?"

He smiled wanly, "We can make an educated guess. From granary records, we know that there was a particularly long stretch – nearly four hundred years – where Egypt and most of Mesopotamia suffered from on-again off-again famines. In the end the Egyptian mages developed a ritual to address the recurring issue. Reportedly, the ritual would give the Nile River a degree of sentience, allowing it to control its own flood seasons and avert famine. It would have been the greatest achievement of nature magic the world had ever known, but for one thing: it was not a nature magic, but soul magic. You see, the ritual required the sacrifice of several thousand male infants."

I paled.

"It appears that the Egyptian mages volunteered a few of their enslaved tribes to shoulder the burden. It took a couple of decades for the tribes to recuperate, but at last they rebelled against their captors and fled into the desert." He paused, trying to find the words. "You must understand, Egypt was one of the most carefully administered empires of the ancient world. They kept records of everything. The only records they didn't keep were those that concerned matters of dishonor, such as military defeat, and for powerhouses like Egypt, such defeats were rare. The year of the slaves' departure… not a single record is preserved. Every one of them was destroyed. We don't know what the tribes did when they left, but it must have been devastating. When the records pick up the following year, it is clear that Egypt had been broken in every way."

He took a deep shuddering breath. "They tried to cut themselves off from the rest of the world, but with a decimated army and drastically weakened population, that soon proved impossible. They were soon subject to Nubian raiders from the south, and Assyrian invaders from the east. Their temples were sacked, their treasures pillaged, and their magicks stolen. Soul magic was already seeded throughout Mesopotamia to spread Egyptian influence, but now it flourished. Only one region proved immune to its allure, for they well knew the horrific cost of such power. Rather than embrace it, the mages of Greece and later Rome declared their intent to eradicate all traces of soul magic. Under Alexander the Great, they nearly succeeded. Only one Phoenician outpost escaped the purge, and that fell to the Romans during the Punic Wars."

"The legacy of Egyptian soul magic was lost to time, besides what little was preserved in the crypts, with only one exception. A single piece of arcane was smuggled out, by a Greek wizard and aspiring Dark Lord known as Herpo the Foul. This magic was called the horcrux, or soul jar, and that is what we are dealing with today. You see, the purpose of a horcrux is to preserve the immorality of its creator."

My eyes widened theatrically, and he nodded. "Precisely. I'm quite sure that this diary is a horcrux, one belonging to the former Dark Lord"

"So that's how he survived!"

"Pardon?" He sputtered. Whatever Bill had expected my response to be, this was clearly not it.

I gave him the same information I'd given the goblins, regarding Quirrell, the fake Philosopher's Stone, and the wraith that had for so long inhabited the forests of Albania.

"So the Headmaster knew of You-Know-Who's survival? But — no, that can't be right, he'd have suspected there was a horcrux involved for sure."

I cocked my head, "You think?"

"Yes. I mean, obviously I'm not an expert in this sort of thing, but as far as I know horcruxes are the only method used to avert death, at least since the fall of Egypt. Even the Philosopher's Stone is limited to merely creating an elixir that prolongs life."

"Huh." I considered this for a moment. "But… in that case, why aren't horcruxes more widely used? For that matter, why are we not overrun with immortal dark wizards?"

He smiled, this one more genuine. "Horcruxes are rare for two reasons. First, the immortality of your soul will only be as secure as its container, which is often quite vulnerable. Second, and more significantly, the magic enacts quite a grave cost to their creator, which is why even the worst Dark Lords tend to shy away from this method."

"How so?"

"I am informed," Bill answered gravely, "that the procedure for creating a horcrux involves shredding one's soul by first committing the murder of an innocent, then transferring a single shard of that soul to a magical container. Such an act constitutes profound self-mutilation, and the damage to the soul is irreversible."

I stopped him. "How could it be irreversible? I was taught that every magical effect has a counter, so long as the effect isn't fatal. That's Waffling's Third Law, isn't it?"

"Good memory, Gilderoy, and you're right to bring that up. But consider Galpalott's Fourth Law: certain blended potions are impossible to counteract, when the antidote would react violently with any element of the original. The same principle applies in this case. The soul does more than give us life. It gives us our humanity, allows us to distinguish the true, the good, and the beautiful. A fractured soul is incapable of perceiving such qualities. So yes, the damage wrought by a horcrux can be undone – according to the theory, a single moment of true contrition would draw the scattered fragments together. But anyone who tears their soul apart has already lost the ability to feel remorse, since they are no longer able to comprehend what 'goodness' means. It's a pointless provision."

My objection stymied, I paused for a second. "Even so, why should the loss of one's morals dissuade someone already committed to a life of evil? Surely the temptation of immortality would prove too great for any dark lord, even if a horcrux were irrevocable."

"That's certainly true, if the loss were limited to their moral and aesthetic sense. But there is a third component of the soul: one's ability to reason and discern truth. The true cost of immorality is one's intelligence. For most dark wizards, that is far too steep a price to pay."

Ah. Then I made another connection. "I suppose…. Well, that might explain why Voldemort secured this horcrux so poorly."

He chuckled, "You may be right. If he weren't able to think straight, he might easily come to leave his anchor of immorality lying around. So tell me, how did you come across it?"

"I believe I mentioned that I found it planted on one of my students? I didn't want to distract you earlier, but I'll tell you now: the student in question was your little sister, Miss Ginny Weasley."

His face contorted in rage and concern. "Who—?"

"The diary was planted on her by Lucius Malfoy. I believe he was entrusted with it by his master, though not informed of its true nature. Malfoy's feud with your father is rather legendary; I imagine he simply wished to cause trouble."

He struggled to control himself. "I trust this will be brought before the Ministry?"

"One of the allies I mentioned earlier was Madame Amelia Bones of the DMLE." It wasn't really an answer to his question – I wasn't yet ready to bring the matter to Amelia – but the half-truth satisfied him. I moved on. "Besides the soul fragment, what else did you uncover about the object?"

"Actually, that was about it. It's a soul fragment, with memories, personality, and a small fraction of magical power, most of which has been geared towards maintaining the near-insurmountable protective charms. It also seems that the diary can borrow magical energy from anyone who writes in it, which may explain the mild compulsion to do precisely that. It's not a very strong compulsion, but then it's embedded in the leather cover, which is a very poor magical capacitor. Frankly, I'm impressed it's lasted as long as it has."

I could hardly believe my good fortune. "That's all?"

"Well, again, it's practically indestructible. But…" he peered at me more closely, "from the smug grin on your face, I'd say you've thought of a way around that."

"Several, actually. You reminded me of one when you were talking about Egypt. You said they summoned the first dementors – remind me, what do dementors eat, again?"

"Souls…" he breathed.

"Precisely. Stick the diary in front of one of 'em, and poof! There goes your anchor to immortality. But I was actually thinking of waiting on that for a while."

Bill was shocked. "What? Why would you want to keep it around? Merlin, it's what's keeping Voldemort alive, it—!"

"That's right, because it contains part of his soul, along with his memories, magic and personality, all wrapped up neatly in a leather-bound book. Think, man! You will never find a dark lord in a more helpless state than this – why not use it to our advantage?"

"Use it, how?" He sounded skeptical, but I could see a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Oh, I have a few ideas. Most people don't know this, but my first job out of Hogwarts was as a low-level Obliviator for the Ministry. I'm a bit out of practice, but mind magic has always been one of my specialties." I brought my wand out. "First things first, I have Occlumency shields, but compulsions always make me antsy. I'd remove them myself, but I don't know how to check if they're tied to the other charms or curses. Can you do the honors?"

"Certainly." A minute later and it was done.

"Wonderful. Now, even though it is an artifact, we know that there is still a mind present within, which makes it susceptible to mental influence." With that I began cast my strongest charms. "I am adding several layers of compulsion. Once I'm done, the diary will think that whichever person writes in it is in fact Lord Voldemort suffering from a Dissociative Fugue state – that is, amnesia combined with an identity crisis. That will in turn trigger the secondary compulsion, so the diary believes that the best way to restore his original self's memories is by answering any question and sharing any relevant information in a complete and honest manner.

The dumb look on Bills' face was priceless.

A thought struck me. "Oh, that reminds me. Glitzy!" My elf popped in. "Can you please bring me a few of the vials I had you purchase?" I turned to Bill, "I can also use compulsions to draw certain memories to the surface of its mind, making it easy to extract them for viewing in my pensieve."

I must admit, I was enjoying myself quite a bit at this point.

"One final thing. I trust you are familiar with Waffling's Fifth Law, the sympathetic principle?"

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Bill nodded. "Yes – 'certain objects may share a kind of natural sympathy, such that charms or enchantments cast on the one will affect the other.' Frazer defined that Law, along with one he called the Law of Contagion, where 'things that have once been in contact with each other continue to act on each other at a distance, after the physical contact as been severed.'"

Huh. "You've read The Golden Bough?"

He blushed, "I dated a muggle-born witch back at Hogwarts."

"Ah. I'm impressed you could quote all of that." Shaking my head, I moved on. "Anyway, as you said, similar objects can be connected such that changes to the one affect the other. This connection can of course be magically amplified. As it happens, we have here" – I pointed at the horcrux – "a diary enchanted with the soul of Tom Marvolo Riddle, while over here" – I pointed again – "we have an almost perfect replica of the same diary, but without the enchantments cast by a psychotic Dark Lord. The sympathetic link is already strong, but if you enhance it, we should be able to tie the diaries together such that all text written in the replica appears in the horcrux, and vice verse."

"Which lets you keep the horcrux magically insulated, while still learning whatever you need to ask!" he finished.

"Precisely. I won't even have to take it out of the bronze cauldron to reinforce the compulsions, either, since I can always cast them on the replica. Each individual compulsion may be weakened by the sympathetic displacement, but the layers should be just as effective overall."

"Bloody hell, that's brilliant." For a moment he sounded like Ron.

"Thank you," I said, as I danced a little jig in my head. "I'm rather pleased with the idea myself. Now, if you could kindly work on the sympathetics, I'll start working out a list of questions to ask and memories to view."

He nodded and turned his attention to the diaries.

"Glitzy!"

He popped in, "Master needs more vials?"

"No, we have plenty, thank you though. Could you bring me parchment and the writing supplies from my desk? Also my pensieve, if you would."

A few seconds later he returned, and I got to work on my wish-list.

My concern first and foremost was finding out everything Riddle had learned about horcruxes, and how he had planned to use them. Besides giving me the obligatory excuse to bring others up to speed about the multiple horcruxes, Riddle's research might clue me in to a way of dealing with horcruxes without destroying them. I hoped not only to protect Harry, but also to preserve all of the invaluable Founders' artifacts that Riddle had perverted.

I was further interested in learning Riddle's experiences as a parselmouth. This would ordinarily be more of an academic concern, but for the fact that I would soon be sharing a castle with a 1000-year-old basilisk, which pushed it higher on my list of priorities. I really hoped there'd be a way to safely control it as Riddle had done, at the very least to keep it away from the students.

Better yet I might even corral it towards the neighboring colony of giant man-eating spiders – two birds with one stone, and all that.

I also wondered if parseltongue could be used to cast spells, and if so, whether Riddle might have done any research into such a field. I imagine Harry would find parselmagic rather handy at some point.

My third area of interest would be in identifying Voldemort's lieutenants and supporters, both marked and unmarked. The diary was one of his first horcruxes, so any information it'd contain would probably be out of date, but it was still better than nothing. Certainly it'd give the lie to the "I was Imperiused!" defense.

Another thought I had would be to chronicle Riddle's encounters with Albus Dumbledore. I had little patience for those who painted Dumbledore an out-and-out Dark Lord, but I had a pretty profound distrust of the Headmaster. I wondered if he might not have inadvertently contributed to Riddle's slide into the Dark Arts. Perhaps it wouldn't pan out, but I still figured it'd be worth checking out.

It'd also be another opportunity to look for patterns in Dumbledore's behavior that I might exploit.

I suppose the last few items on my list were actually part of a much broader project I was contemplating: the autobiography of a Dark Lord. This was a diary, after all, and sifting through all of the facets of Riddle's history (not just the elements Rowling mentioned and I remembered from the books) would doubtless be of immense value.

By this time Bill had completed his charms work on the diaries, and waved me over to test it out. I got down to business.

'Hello, my name is Gilderoy Lockhart.'

_Hello Gilderoy. My name is Tom Riddle. You may also address me as Lord Voldemort_.

'What are you?'

_I am a horcrux: that is, a fragment of my maker's soul. This diary anchors his spirit to this mortal plane._

Splendid. The compulsions and sympathetic charms worked flawlessly. I had been concerned that the text would appear in a jumble, or appear and disappear as in the original horcrux, but Bill's charms must have ensured that the text would be formatted correctly.

I turned to Bill. "I'm going to be pumping the diary for information, probably extract a few memories while I'm at it. You're welcome to whatever information I pick up, but it'll probably take a while. While you wait, would you be willing to ward some of my personal effects, for when I bring them back to Hogwarts?"

"Sure. What type of wards are you looking for?"

I wryly grinned, "Powerful but non-lethal. I'm told goblin wards are pretty secure?"

To my surprise he nodded, "Sure, that wouldn't be a problem." I honestly hadn't thought he'd go for it. At my incredulous look he explained, "Ragnok owes you a favor, so at least for the day you're upgraded to our 'very special client' category. I will need a vial of your blood though: goblin wards are keyed to blood signatures, which are far more precise than the core signatures most wizards rely on."

It was short work to siphon off my blood – Bill had dealt with goblin wards before – and a small healing charm took care of the nick in my arm. I made a quick list of various things to secure. The pensieve and memory cabinet sprang immediately to mind, but I also asked him to check the security on my mail box and trunks as well.

I turned back to the diary as he departed.

'Where did you first learn about horcruxes?'

_My research began early in Fifth Year when was reading 'Magick Most Evil' for a DADA essay assigned by Professor Merrythought. The cryptic reference intrigued me, so I asked my study partner Dillus Rosier if he'd heard of it before. He pointed me to a biography of Herpo the Foul, where I learned that horcruxes were linked to the pursuit of immortality._

_I'd already wheedled a pass for the Restricted Section out of Professor Slughorn – I was a favorite of his – so I read what I could and when the time came plied the Professor for more information. I'd already planned out how I would use such a device; all that remained was to learn how to create them. Fortunately, Professor Slughorn was rather easy to convince that this was purely an academic exercise. He pointed me towards 'Secrets of the Darkest Art,' which contained precisely the instructions I was looking for._

'What was your plan for using horcruxes?'

_I had learned from my reading that no wizard ever survived the destruction of their horcrux, as even fragmented the souls were too entwined to survive for long apart. However, I also learned that no wizard had ever considered that making more than one would dilute the bonds and ensure survival even if any single fragment were destroyed._

_I planned to create six horcruxes, which, counting myself, would total seven soul fragments – arithmantically the most powerful number. I also hoped to make horcruxes out of various artifacts belonging to the Founders, as they would amplify whatever power each fragment would carry. But I decided to first secure my immortality by making a horcrux out of this diary, which contained my greatest secrets, and proof of my claim to be the true Heir of Slytherin."_

'What proof?'

_This Diary contained a record of my search and discovery of the Chamber of Secrets, Salazar Slytherin's greatest legacy. I wrote down everything, from my earliest memories of speaking to snakes to my binding of the Great Basilisk that resided at the heart of Hogwarts._

There we go.

'Tell me about the Chamber of Secrets.'

* * *

A/N: Thank you to all my reviewers, even if I didn't respond to yours.

**Acalia** (id:2661839): I've decided that Dumbledore's animagus form, for this fic, will be that of a snowy owl. I thought it fitting, considering the white tufts of hair, twinkly eyes, and 360 degree field of vision. His brother Aberforth will also be one of the seven current animagi - his form will of course be a goat. This also explains the 'inappropriate charms' - we already know that animagi can communicate with animals (cf. Padfoot and Crookshanks) so Aberforth was merely attempting to extend that communication ability to his human form. Less disturbing this way, I think.

**Vaughn_Tyler** (id:1252578): Thanks for the reminder. I'll be treating Sirius' disinheritance in the next round of pensieve memories.

**Blinded_in_a_bolthole** (id:2648149): Fair enough; my SI character is acting rather altruistically. On the other hand, even if you're motivated out of rational self-interest, I'd say that the smart move (when your entire world is a death-trap) is to either flee or try to fix everything. A little sanity and stability goes a long way, regardless of whether it benefits others as well.

**Arapto** (id:2685197): Thanks! As you can see above, I'd already planned to plunder the horcrux memories. I love your idea for Dobby, though I could easily see that dragging the fic in an entirely different direction than I intend. Molly... is an interesting case. I used to be ambivalent, but one of my reviewers pointed out a number of extremely disturbing moments in canon (most of which are now in the pipeline for my "Wait, What?" series). I'm trying to make her somewhat sympathetic, but I can only take it so far. Likewise, I'll probably increase Arthur's screen-time, but in canon he's both hen-pecked and far too trusting of Dumbledore. As for your last review, I quite like the idea of swapping Sirius and Peter, but not for this story, I think - I'd like to get his name cleared without declaring him legally dead.

**The_Dain** (id:2786426): You make a good point about Amelia. I tend to view her canon behavior as that of a competent and fairly honest individual, whose main flaw is her failure to take the initiative. Thus her willingness to be led by the nose, to an extent. As for the animagus reveal, I agree: it was clumsy, and once Filius has taken a step back to consider it, I think he'll catch on that something's amiss. That's all I can say for now.


	10. The Social Life of Slugs

Gilding the Son of Lily  
By Publicola

* * *

**The Social Life of Slugs**

I waved the young curse-breaker over once he had finished securing my belongings. "Bill, I think you should have a look at this."

"Sure, Gilderoy, what'd you find?"

"Read." I thrust the diary at him, turning to the first page.

It only took a minute before he lost all color in his face. "Merlin's bloody bollocks, he made more than one? How'd he — well shit."

He finally turned his gaze on me. "Riddle must have been a genius to figure all this out while he was still a student. 'Course, he must be certifiable after making multiples, but still!" He paused, "You know what this means, don't you? We haven't a clue where the others are or where they might be. This is… nightmarish.'

I nodded solemnly, "He intended to use Founders' artifacts, but that's no help. Most of those are lost, and even if he used them we'd still have to find them all over again ourselves. Oh, keep reading."

He looked at me oddly for a moment, before returning his attention to the diary. Another minute passed before he started swearing like a longshoreman. "Bloody buggering shit! A basilisk! A thousand-year-old basilisk inside the school... that thing must be huge!"

I chuckled nervously. "Tell me something I don't know. I was sorely tempted to tender my resignation on the spot – no way do I want to be anywhere near that thing! On the other hand, it hasn't been active for almost fifty years, and hopefully we can get neutralize it now that the diary won't be around to awaken it. Also, keep reading."

His wide eyes narrowed.

"No, you're past the worst parts. There's a sentence… here" I pointed, "where he says he had to bind the Basilisk to his will. Perhaps we can reverse the process. It seems unlikely that Slytherin would have been so cavalier about the safety of the school he founded – perhaps the basilisk was meant to defend the school?"

He gawked at me. "Sure, and perhaps Salazar was actually a Gryffindor at heart. Are you mad? We're talking about a beast that can kill with a glance and whose venom is the most deadly known to man. Even if you're right about Slytherin's intentions, which I very much doubt, who's to say the snake hasn't gone stir-crazy from a thousand years of isolation? And don't forget, even if we break the binding, You-Know-Who could do it again if given half a chance. Merlin, it's like defending yourself with a mucular bomb—"

"Nuclear?" Ironic he used that example, considering the Cold War policy of Mutually Assured Destruction.

"That's the word – nuclear bomb. You die, everyone else dies with you. Problem is, that won't dissuade Voldemort if he has horcruxes. Safest choice is to just get rid of the thing."

Or maybe he had heard of MAD – he just realized it doesn't work when dealing with an unkillable psychopath.

"All right, all right, you made your point. I just thought – it mean, if it's a thousand years old, it must have known the Founders. Think of all the history, if we could find someone to talk to it!"

That stopped him. "You know… that's a really good point. I still say it's safest to kill it, but you're right that it'd be an incredible boon for historians. The trick would be capturing it first so you could have the conversation safely. Oh, and finding a parselmouth."

"Right." I made a note on my question sheet, to see how Riddle had dealt with the basilisk before binding it. "Are parselmouths as rare as I think they are?"

He grimaced, "Yes and no. I've seen a few snake-charmers in Egypt, and I heard they're fairly thick on the ground in India. Problem is, I don't how useful they'd be, since they belong to the Order of Aesculapius."

"What does that mean?"

"Means they weren't born that way. The Order was founded by a Greek parselmouth, who found a way to teach snake-speech to his followers. By the time he died, they knew enough to teach others. They couldn't replicate his parselmagic – he was a healer – but snake-speech was passed from generation to generation. I hear they renew the syllabus anytime they find a born-parselmouth, but that's every other century or so. For the most part, none of them are native speakers."

I was still stuck on the idea that snake-speech could be taught. "Wait, why is that a problem again?"

"Because only a born parselmouth speaks it instinctively, and we can't be sure if two-thousand-year-old lessons from a Greek snake-speaker would apply to interpreting for a thousand-year-old English basilisk."

"Ah." That's when it hit me. Of course parseltongue could be taught, otherwise Ron could have never opened the Chamber. 'He talks in his sleep,' my arse.

"What's that?" Bill looked at me curiously. "You looked like you thought of something."

Well, this is just great. What am I supposed to say? 'Yes, I was just thinking of how much of a creeper your youngest brother would be in some future alternate universe'? Right.

"Nothing… I just…." Ooh, an idea. I tried again. "I was just thinking: have you ever heard of Language Lozenges?"

He nodded pensively. "I've used those before – Gringotts provided the ones for Ancient Egyptian before my first dig. I hear they're pretty rare, though, not to mention expensive. Where'd you hear of them?"

"Oh, mine are supplied by the Dark Forces Defense League. One of the perks of membership, I guess. I was just thinking, if snake-speech can be taught, why couldn't there be a parseltongue variety?"

We thought on that for a few seconds, before I shook myself. "Anyway, there's still more in the diary."

"Read on?" He said wryly.

"Of course."

He continued to scan the pages, as I idled nearby. Each question served as a title of sorts for each of Riddle's answers, so it was easy to follow along despite the Q & A format.

* * *

'_What do you know of the Great Basilisk?'_

'_What else did you find in the Chamber?'_

'_What are your memories of speaking with snakes before entering Hogwarts?'_

'_What did you learn about parseltongue once you entered Hogwarts?'_

'_Who else knew that you could talk with snakes?'_

'_Did anyone of them help you research? Who were your allies?'_

'_When did you discover you were a descendant of Slytherin's line?'_

'_What do you know of the Gaunt family?'_

'_What was it you did to them?"_

* * *

"Gilderoy, look!" Bill waved me over in excitement. "Here he's talking about the Gaunt family, and their connection to the Slytherin line… he set up Morfin to go to Azkaban… took the family ring. I wonder—if he made the diary into a horcrux because it proved he was worthy to enter the Chamber, you don't think he might've used the Gaunt ring as proof of his lineage?"

Damn he's good! "Might be something there, I'll make a note of it."

He continued perusing the other answers, occasionally discussing some of the responses with me. I wasn't a great conversationalist, however, as my attention was already elsewhere. That evening I would be attending Slughorn's dinner party. I had a few ideas for how to proceed, but mostly I was just going to wing it.

"Just a sec." I pulled out the original diary, and cast a quick compulsion. "I'm going to a dinner party hosted by Horace Slughorn in an hour or so, and remembered that his name came up early on." I placed the tip of my wand on the horcrux, twisted left, and _pulled_. A thin silvery strand came up with it. "This is Riddle's memory of their encounter." I motioned at the pensieve nearby. "Care to join me?"

He did, rather eagerly. The memory was pretty much identical to the one Slughorn provided Harry in the books, with one glaring exception.

The whole misadventure in Harry's Sixth Year left me stymied, in more ways than one. Why was Slughorn so reticent about sharing that memory? I mean, it was just a conversation, and not much of one at that. Riddle did most of the talking—so uncharacteristic for a true Slytherin—and Slughorn hardly provided any new information at all. Right?

Ah. Turns out Slughorn still managed to withhold a few moments from the final memory: namely the part where he told Riddle that he could find out how to make horcruxes from the book Secrets of the Darkest Art, and then told him where to find it in the Restricted Section. That's what was missing: Slughorn practically gave him the instruction manual!

When we emerged from the pensieve, Bill stood unnaturally still, except for his hands which he was cycling between extended and clenched. He settled for the latter. "The bastard! He knew! You could see it in his eyes by the end of it—he knew it wasn't just academic, he knew Riddle was serious. And he did nothing!" He banged a fist impotently against the wall.

His eyes pierced mine. "Gilderoy, I don't know what you have planned, but whatever you do… bury him."

* * *

Two hours later, I stood beside an immaculately kept lawn somewhere in the West County. I only knew the apparition coordinates from Slughorn's invitation. I'd sent Bill back to Gringotts an hour before, with a promise to stay in touch to coordinate the horcrux search. The diary was busy transcribing a response to my query 'Describe your life before entering Hogwarts,' which should occupy it for the rest of the night.

I walked up to the house. On my second knock the door swung open. "Gilderoy!" A portly man welcomed me, looking like an experimental cross-breed of the actor Jim Broadbent and a walrus. "So glad you could make it! Come in, come in." He waved me inside.

The dinner party had barely begun by the time I arrived, the loitering guests conversing in twos and threes around the house. I had barely taken off my outer robes before Slughorn waylaid me into a conversation with Barnabus Cuffe, editor-in-chief of _The Daily Prophet_. Considering he ran the magical equivalent of _Pravda_, he turned out to a surprisingly pleasant and engaging conversationalist – so much so that by the end of our discussion I found myself somehow agreeing to be interviewed the following week. Coming to my senses, I couldn't do much about the interview, but I was able to confirm (rather hastily) that Rita Skeeter wouldn't be assigned the job.

Thank heaven for small blessings.

Cuffe had an urgent appointment with the punch bowl, and Slughorn had long since disappeared, so we parted ways. I meandered for a time, before I overheard a snippet of conversation that caught my ear.

"…but even you must see how absurd it is to allow our economy to be held hostage by the goblins!"

I listened from the edge of the conversation, though I was careful not to interrupt. A young lady on the cusp of middle age seemed to be haranguing a feebly protesting older man.

"Ah but—"

She continued, "You know as well as I that goblins cannot be trusted. They are a cruel and vicious race who should have never been allowed to set foot above-ground, let alone granted sovereign territory in the heart of London. A nation of bloodthirsty bankers: Morgana spare us. I cannot believe our official policy is to appease the bastards!"

"Ah but—"

"But why do I even bother, really? Nothing I say will change your mind, and certainly you couldn't affect the Ministry's stance."

"Ah but—"

"It sickens me, it really does. Oh where's the punch?"

She looked ready to turn away from the conversation, so I piped up. "Don't lose hope. You know you're right, and even if others don't see it, you can still set the stage for future reforms by changing hearts and minds now, in the present."

She gazed at me with an appraising eye. "Well said. I can't say we've met, but you are Mr. Lockhart, are you not?"

"At your service, ma'am. And call me Gilderoy." I gave my award-winning smile.

"Wendy Slinkhard." The name seemed familiar. "And this gentleman…" she waved.

The man in question shook himself, as if coming out of a cocoon. "Cuthbert Mockridge, Goblin Liaison Office."

"Indeed! A pleasure to meet you, sir."

The elderly man gave a wan smile, "Same to you, Mr. Lockhart." He wobbled a bit on his cane as we shook hands.

"Well! I was saying," Ms. Slinkhard cut in impatiently, "I do try my hardest, but so few in the Ministry are willing to speak against the goblins. I mean, really!" She huffed.

"Oh? You work for the Ministry?"

"Yes. Officially I'm in Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, though most of my work is coordinating Beast Division policy with the rest of the Ministry."

"Madame Slinkhard… is of the opinion…" Mockridge talked like an Ent. "…that my office… ought to be… taken over… by the Beast Division."

He shot me a knowing glance. Perhaps Cuthbert wasn't as senile as people made him out to be.

Slinkhard started right where he left off. "That's right. But every time I put it on the agenda, it gets pushed to the side by Dumbledore's men. The 'pro-sentient' party, call themselves. Fools, I say."

Mockridge shrugged and turned away, probably going to find a seat in the dining room. She called after him in a different tone. "For your information, it's not 'Madame.' It's 'Madamoiselle.'" She turned to beam at me, her meaning clear.

Oh good Lord. I've heard that politics makes for strange bedfellows, but that was a bridge too far.

I thought quickly. "Suppose we could do something about the goblins… what would replace them? Where would people do their banking, or store their gold?" That's the trick: keep the conversation impersonal.

She looked at me as though I were an idiot. "Why, with the Ministry, of course!" Heaven help me, she was serious. "Everyone I talk to has a different idea who should step in, but I can't understand the fuss. Of course the Ministry should take over – who else is there? No wizard would take such a degrading profession, and of course we can't trust the muggles." She spat. "Who else can we rely on? Dwarves? Don't be absurd."

"Wait, dwarves? What do they have to do with anything?"

She huffed in annoyance. "Don't you know anything? Before the goblins, wizards banked with the dwarves. They built most of the tunnels and vaults in Gringotts. Lost it all in the last go-round, though. Why trust them again, when they failed us the last time?" Fair point. "Trade one species of vermin for another – the idea!" She muttered, half to herself.

Okay, dwarves are back on my list. I'll be the first to admit that I'm prejudiced against goblins. After seeing 'Lord of the Rings,' who wouldn't be? But now she's insulting Gimli.

Keep it together. "But… I know dwarves and goblins were long-time enemies. If the dwarves only recently lost control of the vaults, doesn't that tell us they were successful until then?"

She stammered, "Well, yes, certainly, but…" She breathed and regained her composure. "That hardly means anything in this day and age. After the last series of rebellions, their goose was cooked. They lost ground – rights and territory – in each of the major treaties: 1763, '83, '99, and especially 1815. Now they can't even live below-ground any more – the last of their mountain halls were sealed off after 1919."

Good grief, that sounds horrible. I should have figured as much. Why else would such a proud and noble race as dwarves be willing to deliver Valentines for schoolchildren. What desperate straits drove them to dress in diapers and play Cupid?

Wait a sec.

That was Lockhart. I was the one that would arrange it. But… how? I have no memory of working with dwarves. Well, there was that pub in Sweden, but that hardly counts.

I was 'researching' Travel with Trolls when I came across the town of Nordmaling: population 2000 muggles, 40 wizards, and nearly 12,000 dwarves. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, I'd apparently walked into the Rick's Café of dwarven Casablanca. There congregated the refugees of Western Europe, seeking entry to the ancient mountain halls of The Keel. Alas, few halls would open their doors to such rabble, especially those dispossessed and dishonored by defeat at the hands of stinking goblins. And so the refugees waited (and waited and waited) for passage to the Russian Urals, the East Greenland Orogen, or the Arctic Cordillera of Canada.

Of course, being who I was, I made my presence known by loudly asking the barkeep why there were so many little people about.

That little episode didn't make it into the book.

Then again, that hardly answered my question. Where had I found the clan of dwarves to do Valentine's Day duty? More to the point, where could I find them again, if only to put them to better use?

I nodded idly as Ms. Slinkhard continued to rant, and made the requisite guttural responses when appropriate. "Huh." "Uh-huh." "Oh?" "Hmm." As she was winding down I asked, "Pardon the unrelated question, but your name struck me as familiar. I know we haven't met, but…"

"Oh, perhaps you've seen my book, Beings and Beasts? Oh it has chapters on dwarves and goblins, and others of course, centaurs and merpeople, and how the Ministry deals with all such creatures. Of course I talk about why Ministry policy has failed and how it should be, but with Dumbledore's party in charge, my publishers were cowed into editing much of that out."

"Of course." No doubt her editors were thinking her rants would drive away any interested buyers, but no need to say that out loud. "Alas, I haven't heard of that book before. I'll add it to my list to read, but I don't think that's why I recognized you."

She deflated. "Oh." Then her eyes widened. "Oh! You must be thinking of my brother, then. Wilbert, Wilbert Slinkhard. He works for the Committee on Experimental Charms, and wrote the book on defensive magical theory. You must have seen it while preparing your course for Hogwarts."

"Wait, Defensive Magical Theory, that's the title?" You've got to be kidding. "Of course! That must be how I knew the name. I decided to use a different book, but kept that one as a reference." It wasn't really a lie, seeing as I would keep it as a reference for what not to do. Defensive Magical Theory was the textbook that Umbridge would assign in Harry's fifth year.

I was saved from enduring any more conversation with this woman by Slughorn's call to dinner.

I entered and grabbed a seat, only to find myself flanked by two others. To my right was an elderly man with a sizeable bald patch and a pince-nez; to my left was a tall woman who somehow looked both austere and frumpy.

We caught each others' eyes for a brief moment before she abruptly broke the silence. "Vector. Septima Vector. That's my name. You are?"

"Gilderoy Lockhart, at your service. Vector…" I thought, "Don't you teach arithmancy at Hogwarts?"

"Yes. And I hear you are to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, if the Prophet is to be believed."

"Indeed. So, we are to be colleagues then. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"And yours," she replied curtly.

I turned to the other man, who had been listening in. "And what's your name, sir?"

His pince-nez bobbed as he looked me over. "I am Tofty." His voice was thin and wavery. The woman beside me seemed to prompt him further, so he tried again. "All right. Eigentlich Tofty, that's the name."

"Professor…" The woman began with a resigned air.

"Septima, I've told you before. I may be Professor Tofty to my students, but to everyone else I'd like to keep my given name. Please. I've left my Hogwarts days behind me."

"Except every year when you return for NEWTs and OWLs," she countered easily.

I interjected, "You once taught at Hogwarts? May I ask your department?"

"Why, Arithmancy, of course. Before your time, I expect. Retired in '61, to take apprentices of my own. Septima here still keeps me company, though it's been years since she got the job at Hogwarts. What's it been, four years now?"

"This will be my seventh," she answered promptly.

"Seven years, then. Oh, how the years seem to fly."

"You should take another apprentice, if you wish to keep your hands from idleness."

My brain was just catching up to me. "Wait… Professor Eigentlich…" I raised my voice, "Your middle name wouldn't happen to be Sachlich, would it?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Yes, how'd you figure? My childhood nickname was Sascha, actually. But my Danish days are long behind me as well. Call me Tofty, or Eigen, please."

"Certainly, Prof— _Mister_ Tofty." My mind was by now gibbering incoherently, but I kept it together long enough to prompt him. "I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with Arithmancy – I took other electives – but now that I'm older I find myself more interested. Tell me, what is it that you do?"

Despite being pretty much out of it for most of the conversation, I still tried to follow along with their explanation. Arithmancy was, as the name suggested, the study of magical math, and much of their work focused on its application to runes, rituals, and spell creation. From what I could tell, the Golden Age of arithmancy was during the Founders' Era – Ravenclaw was by all accounts especially gifted – but much of that knowledge was lost during the Renaissance and Enlightenment. Modern arithmancers were divided between two schools: those who sought to make original contributions to the field, and those who emphasized the rediscovery of lost knowledge from the past.

About ten or fifteen minutes in, I spoke during an opportune pause. "Thank you. This has been phenomenally helpful. I did have a question, though. I've heard it said that certain numbers have magical significance – three, four, seven, twelve, that sort of thing. How…" I paused. "How does that even work?"

Tofty chuckled, "Ah. I've had to answer that question for nearly every student through my door. In fact, my student and successor, Miss Wakefield, practically wrote the book on the subject. She taught the course during your years at Hogwarts, isn't that right?"

"Yeah, what happened to her?"

"Retired in '87." Septima answered with a sigh. "Decided to switch professions and become an artist. Real pity – she was my inspiration for becoming an arithmancer myself."

"One of the finest I taught." Tofty concluded sadly. "But back to your question. Septima, care to handle it?"

She nodded demurely. "Certainly. The magical significance of numbers has long been known, but only recently are we finding out the 'how's and 'why's. What is clear is that certain numbers seem to resonant strongly with certain abstract qualities like power, perfection, imperfection, fortune, and harmony. The current understanding is that the magic in numbers originates from notable magical events, propagates through ley lines, and is in some way tied to demographics and culture. For instance, you, like most people, probably know that thirteen is considered an unlucky number, right?" I nodded to confirm. "It may surprise you, then, to hear that is no longer the case in America."

That got a response from me. "Really? How can that be?"

"Indeed. Some say that it is because America is still relatively young in magical terms, and therefore the ambient magicks are still fairly weak. However, I and many others disagree. We believe that thirteen will probably never hold the same significance to them as it does for us."

All that was very interesting, but… "I'm sorry, but you still didn't answer _why_."

She quirked her lip. "Caught that, did you? Good. Impatience is often the mark of an eager student. However, you should know I gave you just enough information to answer the question yourself. Care to give it a try?"

Damn, she teaches with the Socratic method.

"Fine." I said with a resigned air. "Okay, let's see… events, ley lines, demographics and traditions. I don't know of any ley lines running between mainland Europe and North America, so the connection is probably quite weak. Erm, I imagine that any Native American magic would have been entirely unrelated to our European system, so that's something, but now America's been populated mostly by immigrants from Europe, so there shouldn't be that much of a difference… except… you said culture had an impact as well. Most immigrants were assimilated into a distinctive American culture, severing their ties to Old World magic. The magical resonance would fade without that sustaining influence, unless some new magical event came to reinforce it."

Tofty was practically on the edge of his seat. "Very good!" He loudly enthused, receiving more than a few odd glances from others seated around the expansive table.

Septima offered milder compliments. "Well done indeed. You missed a few details, but nothing too major. For instance, it's not chance but design that America has avoided events to reinforce the potency of 'unlucky thirteen.' American mages used compulsions to ensure most early skyscrapers didn't even have a thirteenth floor, or at least not one that would appear on the elevators."

Huh.

"Also, you forgot that there is a ley line between Old and New Worlds, running from the Canaries to the Bahamas, but you're still correct because the magical flow that ties it to the two continents is significantly weaker."

"Wait… Canaries to Bahamas… you don't mean to say…?"

"Well, surely you don't think it was coincidence? Binns may not mention anything, but every European wizard knows quite well that Columbus was a squib who followed the magic. Marco Polo recorded in his Travels that there was a ley line running east from Yangtze River Delta, and Columbus knew there was a ley line running west from the Canary Islands along the same latitude. He didn't realize there was a continent in the middle, but that's where he got the idea of a western route to the Indies."

Well. How about that.

I shook myself. Focus. "That is fascinating. Are there any good books on this subject? I don't recall any of our history textbooks being this interesting."

Tofty smirked, "Yes, Binns was a bore even when I was a student. As for books, I think Wakefield's text on Numerology would be a good start. I'll send you a list of others once I return home – better to have it in writing, I think."

"I can't thank you enough, you've been so helpful." I knew I was being effusive with my praise, but meant every word.

Our conversation continued until the end of the meal, when we traded promises to correspond or converse in the future. Tofty was a true gentleman, kind and reassuring, and while Septima's mannerisms weren't the most pleasant, especially at first, she had such a passion for her subject it hardly mattered in the end.

They were already preparing to leave, so I bid them farewell and moved away to find Slughorn for our conversation. I wanted to confront him after everyone else had left, but it would take careful timing.

I finally spotted him in the midst of a rather raucous conversation. Before I could join in, a hand grasped my arm and abruptly turned me in a different direction.

I looked down.

It was a short but tightly built woman, with a dark tan and an impressively painful grip. She looked familiar somehow. "Gilderoy Lockhart!" She had the voice of a female James Earl Jones, low and rumbling. "How good to see you here! So few people come to these things who can hold an intelligent conversation about Quidditch."

At my blank look she slapped me on the arm. It hurt. "Don't tell me you don't recognize me. Everyone knows me: I'm Gwenog Jones!"

"Ah, that's right. Beater for the Hollyhead Harpies, as I recall?"

"**Star** beater for the Harpies, and odds-on favorite to make the English Team for the World Cup! And you're Mr. Lockhart, dark forces fighter and author extraordinaire. How wonderful to meet you!"

Well. This is awkward. I knew there were other celebrities, but Lockhart tended to stay away from them. Didn't like the competition, see. "Ah. Thank you. Good to meet you as well. I see my… reputation precedes me." I relied on Occlumency to avoid blushing. How to hold a conversation with someone so caught up in their own mystique?

"Oh of course, everyone knows all about you. Well, everyone who's anyone. I think my sister still hasn't read your books. Calls 'em hokum, she does. Can you believe her?"

Point: sister. "Ah… your sister is Hestia, isn't that right?"

"You know her?" She looked somehow offended.

"Just by reputation." I backtracked. "She's in the Auror Office, you see, and I've worked with them a few times."

"Yes, well, never mind her." She rallied. "What brings you here? Staking your claims on an adoring… public?" She continued to speak in silky tones, as I withdrew into my mind.

Were all of Lockhart's fans so obvious? Oh. Right. Yes they were. Of course, Lockhart was nearly as bad. By this point he'd have probably taken her up on the offer already. Though he might have hesitated for a brief time wondering how it might affect his book sales to shack up with another celebrity.

But I wasn't Lockhart, so… though it was distracting to watch her throw herself at me… but no, not happening, I had a job to… is it hot in here? But no, I needed to move, I had to talk to… and why would I try to distract myself with our corpulent host when I could be enjoying such sexy _hors d'oeuvres_, and oh my gosh that doesn't sound anything like me something is wrong here.

I schooled my features and took a few moments to clear my frazzled mind. "Excuse me." I bowed my head and tried to move away.

She kept her grip on my arm. "What's wrong, Gilderoy?"

This time it was even harder to clear my thoughts. I tried again. "I need to thank… the host. Please, _excuse_ me." I ground out.

"But…" she protested, as if in disbelief, "It was so good to meet someone like you, like me, someone who could understand me and the life I chose to live, I… I thought we had a connection, how can you just walk away?"

By now my head was full of static. I was saved by a single thought. I was lost. Where was the real me?

That was enough to prompt me, not to immerse myself in Occlumency but in my very magical core. It was short work to follow the tendrils to my other pre-Lockhart memories, and to act from there, while my main persona was shredded by whatever magic she was working. Some sort of a scent-based love potion, perhaps?

This is why I needed Occlumency, or rather, why I needed to be known as an Occlumencer. I had crafted my second persona, with sensitive memories tucked away, but I hadn't developed external barriers yet, because I didn't want to arouse Dumbledore's suspicion. Developing such an advanced magical skill without prior notice would certainly arouse suspicion. But Occlumency was meant for defense, not for something like this, not for emergency repair and salvage. Too late for that now.

"Let. Me. Go." I ground out, releasing a bit of magic alongside each word. (I'd heard of the Bene Gesserit and wanted to give it a try). She did, looking shocked. "Whatever you're doing, it won't work. I know my mind, and I know you're doing something to it. You don't stop, the next thing you'll see is an Auror guard. I'll gift-wrap you for your sister. I'm sure she'd appreciate it. Think your fans would enjoy reading about that? Now get out!"

Now, the problem with relying on my original memories is that I didn't have the same mental control over my magic as someone who had grown up with it. Lockhart's body had, but my mind hadn't. That meant my limbic brain was primed for a release of accidental magic, while my body could only direct that through previously used channels. In short, by the end of my speech there was a visible aura around my head and hands, something that only manifested for wizards considerably stronger than I was.

I smirked as she stumbled over herself to back away. We had gathered a slight audience, several looking at Gwenog with disdain but most looking at me, with expressions ranging from the intrigued, to the entertained, to the plainly lustful - though the last was mostly Wendy Slinkhard. Kill me now.

My aura died down as Gwenog left through the front door, the loud 'crack' of apparition following a few seconds later. Conversation resumed, though somewhat hushed in the aftermath of my little display. Slughorn left an opening in his circle of friends for me to join in, which I did.

The conversation that followed was uninteresting, though I tried to follow along, if only to keep my attention off the odd looks I was receiving. The gentle-wizards were discussing the latest reports from the Czech Ministry regarding knock-off firewhiskey imports. At one point I was called to contribute because I had recently visited Moldova, though I don't know why they thought that was relevant. The two countries were over 900 miles apart.

One by one the others left, as the conversation turned and turned, flitting between such weighty topics as the recent giant legislation passed by the Duchy of Lithuania, to the ongoing diplomatic talks between the Magyar Empire and the Transylvanian Ministry (especially as it touched on the perennial 'Vampire Question'), before returning to more prosaic subjects, such as the new issue of _Wandwork Quarterly_. The conversation finally wound down with a discussion of the latest haute-culture fashions displayed at Cavalyn Studios (and imitated, poorly, by the more popular clothier, Madame Malkin's) before the last guest finally departed.

At last I was alone with Slughorn. "Gilderoy! I'm so glad you were able to make it. Please have a seat." He waved me to a chair near the fireplace. "I trust you enjoyed your first evening among our little clique?"

I grimaced, "But for that conversation with Miss Jones…"

He frowned, "Yes. That was… unfortunate. If she can't behave herself, I may not invite her back. Reflects poorly on the rest of us, you know. I'll have to think on this. Besides that?"

"Of course," I nodded affably, "I had several excellent discussions. Most of my exploits have tended to be solo endeavors, but now that I'm back in England, it's a pleasure to be around such an accomplished group of individuals as you've surrounded yourself with. In fact, that reminds me. Glitzy!" My elf popped in. "Please bring the item I set aside earlier?"

"Of course, Master." A few seconds later he popped back with the crystallized pineapple.

"A little bird told me this was your favorite. Please, accept this with my compliments."

Horace looked torn between confusion at my words, gratitude for the gift, and…

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."

… and a dawning discomfort at the old memory this conversation was recalling.

"Ask away, then," he prompted, with an odd expression on his face.

"Sir, I wondered what you know about… about Horcruxes?"

Slughorn stared at me thunderstruck.

"I came across the term while reading, and I didn't fully understand it. I figured a wizard like you, with contacts like yours, would surely…"

"Did Dumbledore send you?" He cut me off roughly.

There we go. "Pardon? What do you mean by that?"

"He's come sniffing around before, and this wouldn't be the first time he sent one of his lackeys. Didn't figure you for one of his. What's he playing at?" Anger marred his face.

I smirked. "Nothing. This conversation will never make it back to him."

Now the discomfort was back. "Then… what's the meaning of this? How do you know that word, those words, this whole…?" He waved at the room, as though to clarify his meaning.

"Exactly what you think. I merely mean that none of this will be reported to the Headmaster."

"Then you…" his expression turned fearful, and his voice lowered, "you serve You-Know-Who, then?"

"Why does everyone assume that?" I burst. "No! The fact I don't worship at Dumbledore's feet hardly makes me a servant of a murdering psychopath!"

"Then you're not—"

"Oh, that's just it, I am." I had no idea what I was saying I was, but it sounded good regardless. "I've come across certain information – a device, and a memory within, showing in stark relief how you were an early supporter of Tom Riddle's rise."

The name more than anything seemed to terrify him. "No! I never…! How can you say…?" He trailed off at my murderous expression.

"How can I say? How can I say?" I ranted. "You told a sixteen-year-old boy how to make a horcrux! The sole surviving remnant of Egyptian black magic, and you practically gift-wrapped the instruction manual! And then you hid away, telling no one your little secret: that the Dark Lord you instructed is effectively immortal!"

"But he died! Potter killed him! The Boy-Who-Lived—!"

"Is a myth coined by the Headmaster. The Dark Lord was not killed but disembodied. Even now he seeks to return."

He stared at me in horror. "You're… you're lying. You can't be…"

"Remember the Gringotts break-in last year? That was Voldemort," he shuddered, "attempting to steal the Philosopher's Stone. Dumbledore knows, since he was the one responsible for the Stone's protection." No need to tell him it wasn't the real Stone.

He slumped in stupefied silence.

"Catching on, are you? Now you realize just how low your fortunes have sunk. So now that we understand each other, let's talk. You obviously want to keep this a secret. Amelia Bones or any of the honest Aurors would send you to Azkaban in a heartbeat. And that's to say nothing of what the servants of **Voldemort**" now he was practically trembling "would do to you if they heard you betrayed their Lord's greatest secret. So this is what we're going to do. You're going to give your oath, that you will not speak of this conversation to anyone without permission, that you will not seek to harm me, and that you will answer my questions honestly. In return, I will swear to try and keep this information from becoming public knowledge."

Now he blustered. "That's hardly a fair exchange. Really, I mean…"

"Be silent. Don't test my patience, you won't like the results. How long do you think you'd last if others knew what I know? Even if you could stay out of Azkaban, **everyone** would have you in their cross-hairs. All it takes is one word from me, and you're ruined. Think on that."

As I spoke, his eyes widened and his shoulders fell. He sat in silence for almost a minute, before slouching further. "I'll do it."

"Excellent."

* * *

A/N: Lots of references in here, everything from Dune to Berenstain Bears (good luck finding that one!), not to mention quite a few asides to historical events from Europe's past. See if you can catch them all.

A/N 2: Thanks to all my reviewers. Here are a few responses.

**Gray Fedora** (id:2251188): My reference to the Homorphus Charm was actually deliberate. The way I see it, Homorphus is taught to every Sixth Year student as the means of reversing human transfiguration. It was a stroke of genius that the original wizard (from whom Lockhart stole the tale) thought to use that charm while fighting a werewolf. While it was by no means a cure for lycanthropy, it did partially return the werewolf to a human-ish form. That weakened the wolf just enough for the wizard to defeat it. All that to say, Lockhart only steals real adventures from other people. He may not understand it, as in this case, but there is a basis in reality for most of his tales.

**CheddarTrek** (id:653366): Thanks for your reviews here and on the DLP forums - I appreciate the feedback. Regarding the comment on gold, silver, and bronze, I actually developed a whole system of how metals interact with magic which may or may not come into play in this fic. If anyone wants details, they can PM me.

**Find Pie** (id:2378530): I figure, if magical oaths operate on intent, then they can be affected by mind magic. James Potter gave a single escape clause: "as long as the life-debt stands." The instant Snape saved Harry Potter's life - or *convinced himself* that he had saved Harry Potter's life - the life-debt was absolved and Snape was freed of the compulsion. That's the reason for the odd disconnect in PoA where Snape goes on and on about saving Harry's life even though he knows it to be a lie. He's trying to convince himself. It's an odd ret-con, but it's practically the only thing that makes sense out of his behavior besides simply calling him deranged.

**RRW** (id:1268249): Nope, though I hope to be a professor some day. As for your questions: I don't yet know what I'm going to do with Bill, but he'll definitely stay involved. It'll probably be several more chapters (five or so) before I make it to Hogwarts. As for Dobby closing the platform... stay tuned. That's one of the turning points of the fic.

**AiSard** (id: 902503): I agree that the plot against Dumbledore got started a bit quickly, though I hope I've explained why that is. All the same, part of it can be explained by how Lockhart's personality has begun to affect the SI narrator, which will be a recurring issue in the fic. It will be made very clear that Lockhart can do quite a bit of wrong, primarily because he doesn't know (as it were) the rules of the road. He'll still be the protagonist, but this won't be your typical "Mr. Fix-It" fic. As for goblins, I'm quite happy with how I've dealt with them. I mean, I can understand why people are so desperate to make Gringotts into a concierge service (Harry Potter needs power-ups!), but seriously, why goblins? In European folklore they're pretty much archetypally evil, and their behavior in HP canon does nothing to improve our opinion of them. I'm glad you're enjoying the backstory, as well.


	11. At Home with Hufflepuffs

Gilding the Son of Lily  
By Publicola

* * *

**At Home with Hufflepuffs**

Most people would say magical oaths are pretty straightforward. Do what you swear to do, or your magic pays the piper. But reality is not so simple.

If you're bound to tell the truth, but forget an important detail, your magic won't just up and die. It may twinge a bit, but that's all. It's a rather useful barometer of truth-telling, one I'd use more often were it not for the downside.

Perjury is a very bad idea.

No one knew precisely how this sliding scale worked. Some would say magic itself was sentient, that it could adjudicate the severity of an offense. I'd be inclined to agree with them, but for the obvious loophole.

Magical oaths hinge on intent, and intent is subject to mind magic.

There are limitations, of course, but nothing beyond the ken of an Occlumens. I couldn't say the sky was purple, unless I could rationalize that _this _shade of purple was really just another shade of blue.

So I had no sooner exchanged oaths with Slughorn, than I was convinced that the best way to keep his secret was by persuading Amelia to declare it classified.

Of course, she'd have to be informed first, but I never swore to keep his secret from other individuals, just from 'the public,' however creatively defined. Nor had I sworn to keep those others from taking a pound of flesh for their own.

Slughorn's future was beginning to resemble that of a pin cushion.

"All right," I began as soon as the oaths were completed. "So we can sit here all night while I ask you every question that comes to mind. Or you can save yourself the time and just give me the memories I want. Your choice."

He looked like someone had strangled his puffksein.

"Oh, don't give me that look. You've made your bed. Now it's time to fluff the sheets."

His anxiety had an odd effect on his normal jolly voice, so his words came out in an oddly syncopated lilt. "I thu… I think I'd just like this night to be over?"

I smirked.

A half-hour later, I returned home with more than a few silvery vials.

* * *

The next morning I had a few chores before I could resume my pensieve lessons with Flitwick. The diary was still writing when I returned home the previous evening, but now it had finished, so I primed it to recount Riddle's experiences in his first year at Hogwarts. I perused _The Daily Prophet_ over breakfast – there was a brief notice of my kerfuffle with Gwenog Jones in the Society section, though no mention of her use of potions.

There was a note from Amelia Bones waiting for me in my mail-box.

_Gilderoy,_

_I thought you should know what progress has been made on the Black case. Contrary to MLE policy, we only have a summary sheet on file. The full records are marked classified, and kept by the Minister's Office. It appears the order was countersigned by Fudge as acting Head of the Auror Investigative Office._

_I'll have Hestia update you further when you meet._

_Amelia_

So Fudge was in charge of Auror Investigations? Somehow I'm not surprised. It'd certainly explain why the initial inquiry was botched.

Flitwick entered through the Floo, and we moved over to the Floo. "Before we get back to Fifth Year, we have a bit of catching up to do." I briefly recapped the story of how the diary had come into my possession, how I'd arranged to meet with a Gringotts curse-breaker, and how we had learned that the diary was one of Voldemort's horcruxes.

His ghast was well and properly flabbered.

"Here it gets tricky. I made an oath to keep this next bit out of the public eye, so I'll need your word – no, I won't need an oath, I trust you – to not spread this far and wide. Shouldn't be too hard – I'd like to keep a lid on the whole horcruxes thing, and this is part of that. Turns out Riddle was given a leg up on his horcrux studies by his Head of House, and I have proof. Slughorn didn't want it to get out that he had mentored the Dark Lord, so he'll be helping us in exchange for my public silence. 'Course, that public silence didn't extend to protecting him from others in the know... I'll be bringing Amelia into the loop if you feel the need to collaborate. Have fun."

By the time I'd finished speaking, Flitwick's ghast had stabilized and his hackles were raised. With a vengeful part-goblin on his horizon, Slughorn's future was not looking bright.

I continued. "Actually, there is one last thing before we begin. I had an… odd experience yesterday at Slughorn's party, and wondered if you might shed light on it." I withdrew my memory of Gwenog's mental assault and let it fall into the pensieve.

With a quizzical look he nodded and followed in after it.

One of the challenges of false memories is that they cannot be created out of the cloth. Due to their saturation in ambient magic, memories can only be removed or modified. While in theory there were no limits to what a master Occlumens could modify, my mind was more constrained.

I knew that Dumbledore would sooner or later invade my mind, and I knew I'd need an excuse to start building my defenses.

Upon exiting, Flitwick explained. "I'd say you were the victim of a targeted compulsion-aphrodisiac. I saw her spray perfume before the encounter, but the effect was far too strong for a scent base, and only you were affected. She probably brushed against you earlier in the party to get a sample of hair or dead skin, and produced the effect with a combination of charmed jewelry and potion spray."

"Good grief. How much planning went into this?"

"Quite a bit, though you were most likely a target of opportunity. The effect was too potent for it to have been spur of the moment. Frankly, I'm impressed you're all right; the strength of the compulsion must have been just shy of an Imperius."

"How can that possibly be legal?" I asked in disbelief.

He answered hesitantly. "Well, technically it's not, but it's practically impossible to prove. Certifying potions residue is notoriously hit-or-miss, and memories can't be used to convict ever since it was proven they can be modified. Frankly, even if you could prove it was her, she'd probably claim a pre-existing relationship. Love potions are pretty widely used by couples to… enhance their relationship, so this is one instance where the burden of proof is on the victim."

"Well… well _damn_. That' s just…" I had no words. I shook myself and forced the conversation back to my script. "Wait, you said… memories can be modified? Really? How does that work?"

At last Flitwick launched into what I needed: an explanation of Occlumency, a summary of the two approaches, and a promise to provide resources for me to develop the skill.

"Good heavens, I can't thank you enough! I'll probably just stick with the first one – constructing an extra mindscape sounds way out of my league. I should be fine with a basic shield."

And there it was: the perfect memory for Dumbledore's scan, no modification necessary. No reason at all to suspect I'd already mastered the more advanced technique, no reason to go trawling for buried memories.

At last we got down to the business of perusing Flitwick's memories, picking up where we left off in Fifth Year.

James and Sirius were now animagi, and it had begun to affect their personalities. James' gait seemed prouder, at times almost regal, while Sirius' demeanor became even more playful, though I noticed he always deferred to James as his alpha. I also noticed that, while Peter had not yet made the transformation, his envious looks towards the others had become more and more pronounced.

For his part, Remus had begun to withdraw into himself following the near-death incident with Snape, trapped in a cycle of shame and self-loathing. It had affected him deeply, and none of his friends knew how to respond, besides simply being there during his transformations. Flitwick told me James had taken to studying with him in the library, but that seemed to have little effect. Sirius just looked lost. He had apologized several times, realizing that Remus' involvement was his fault, but had no notion of how to mend the fractured friendship.

This holding pattern held for the next few months, until a new crisis appeared on the horizon.

The relationship with Sirius and Regulus Black had long been frayed, ever since Sirius was Sorted to Gryffindor against his family's wishes. The presumptive heir became more and more estranged from his parents, while the second son reaped more and more of their affections. However close they might have been as children, the brothers' friendship could hardly survive such a complete reversal.

Sirius' alienation intensified the following summer – absence having failed to make his heart any fonder, the familiar quarters only bred contempt. Every summer thereafter Sirius spent increasing amounts of time with the Potter family, and it was clear he'd begun to treat them as a surrogate family. The few weeks he returned each summer to Grimmauld Place were spent mainly in his room, redecorating it with festive red and gold and posters of bikini-clad girls.

Teenage rebellion never had it so good.

But now he was reaping the consequences. Regulus had come to Hogwarts when the Marauders entered their Third Year, and like most young Slytherins had begun to orbit Snape's coterie by the time he rose to power in their Fourth. Now Regulus was a Third Year himself, and his talent on a broom had won him a slot as the Seeker for the House Quidditch Team. This put him on Snape's radar, if nothing else, but after the events of last November, the Potions prodigy was looking for revenge.

His approach was subtle, so much so that Sirius didn't even notice until Peter idly mentioned it to him. Regulus had long sought a surrogate for his absent older brother, and Snape more than fit the bill. Regulus began to openly read anti-Muggle literature, books on the Dark Arts, and newspaper articles on the Dark Lord's deeds. For his part, Snape seemed to go out of his way to include Regulus in his inner circle.

At length Snape made his move. He could not speak of the werewolf, thanks to his life-debt, but he could share a carefully edited story of how Sirius had tried to kill Snape earlier that year, but the incident was covered up due to 'House politics.' That prompted Regulus to write home to his mother, with a tale of how Sirius had thrown around the family name to shirk responsibility for crimes against a Slytherin. Walpurga predictably responded with a Howler in the Great Hall.

Regulus had told them how Sirius had abused the family name.

Sirius Black was not to return home for the summer.

His name had been blasted off the family tapestry.

They had written him out of their will; Regulus now stood in his place.

They considered him unworthy of the family legacy, and would petition Arcturus, the Black patriarch, to disinherit him.

Sirius Black was no longer considered their son.

Even before the final words echoed down the length of the chamber, Sirius had begun to flee, his fellow Marauders in hot pursuit. The doors were blocked, however, by an equally distraught Regulus.

"Siri, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I had no idea they would …"

"Get out of my way." Sirius ground out between his teeth, and tried to push the younger boy away.

"Brother…"

"Shut up! _Depulso!_" Regulus caught the hex in his midsection and was knocked back a few feet. As the younger boy lay sprawled on the floor, Sirius stepped past him, only pausing to deliver his final crushing words. "If I am not their son, you are not my brother. _Never_ speak to me again." With that, he was gone.

The younger boy's expression was evidence enough. He might have guessed his parents would be upset, but he'd clearly been blindsided by the ferocity of their response. But Sirius did not bear witness to his brother's heartbreak and horror: the brothers would never speak again.

On the far side of the Hall, watching all, Snape's expression was one of unmistakable triumph. Revenge was sweet indeed.

* * *

Flitwick and I took a short lunch together, discussing some of the Charms lessons he had covered.

"Terribly sorry to cut this short, but I have an appointment this afternoon."

"Oh?" Flitwick prompted.

"I'm meeting with a few folks whose kids are at Hogwarts, see if they'd like to be more involved. Sort of a 'Moms in Touch' PTA type thing.

"Ah. Who is it you're meeting?"

"Mrs. Abbott and Finch-Fletchley for now. They'll probably organize any other parents that express interest."

"Finch-Fletchley… that's Justin's mother, correct?" I nodded. He ruminated for another moment. "Given what Dumbledore's been up to, I can see the up-side. Just tread carefully: you don't want to tip your hand too soon by getting on the wrong side of a family like the Weasleys. But let me know how it goes; I might want to tag along next time you meet." His voice rose at the end, to clarify it was a question.

"Of course! I was originally thinking it'd be a good way to get others involved, maybe bring to light some of Dumbledore's more questionable decisions, but with enough faculty support we might have real influence. I met Professor Vector last night at the Slug Club; if you know others who might be interested, feel free to spread the word."

"Hmm… Septima would be a welcome addition. I doubt Minerva or Sibyl would go for it – Severus is a definite 'no' – I suspect Hagrid would object to any criticism of the Headmaster, but we can check if he's amenable later. I'll get in touch with Pomona this afternoon, and see if she'd help."

"That sounds great."

"Meet again this evening to finish Fifth Year?"

"Sure. I'll Floo you once we're done."

"Excellent. Well, I'll catch you later." A few moments later Flitwick disappeared with an impressive 'whoosh.'

* * *

"Cream and sugar?"

"Certainly, thank you."

"It was so good of you to write us, Mr. Lockhart. We rarely hear anything from the Hogwarts staff, and to know that you'll be around to keep us informed… well, I assure you we appreciate it. Why, Jackie here was telling me earlier – well, why don't you say it dear?"

Jacqueline Finch-Fletchley set down her saucer primly. "Of course. I was telling Mrs. Abbott how… appalled I was to find that there was no parent support from the staff. After the first meeting – which was mostly show-and-tell, you know, for the child, very little for us adults – they whisked my dear Justin off to that, that Diagon Alley, don't even give us the courtesy of an invitation, and disapp.. disapp…"

"Disapparate." Mrs. Abbott prompted helpfully.

"Disappear," Mrs. Finch-Fltechley finished with a sideways glance, "without so much as a by-your-leave. Not a word about finances, or anything. I had to learn about the Scholarship from a pamphlet they gave Justin!"

I was pretty sure a word in there was capitalized. "Scholarship?"

"Yes, the Evans Scholarship for Muggle-born Students. Apparently the school pays up to 75% of the cost of tuition for all children from… non-magical families. Hardly seemed to matter, though. Didn't appear that they'd take 'no' for an answer, regardless. It was only Justin's determination to see his friends over the summer that put me in contact with Mrs. Abbott here, and she has been _very _helpful." She finished a bit more warmly towards her companion than her earlier words would indicate.

Though my thoughts were still in orbit around the 'Evans Scholarship,' I smiled and nodded. "I'm certainly glad you found someone to answer what the staff left unanswered, though I hope… well, I hope that can be one of the functions of whatever this is we decide to organize. Parents, particularly muggle par—"

"Non-magical." Mrs. Finch-Fletchley said firmly.

"Non-magical," I corrected. "Such parents are left in the dark, and I can help but feel it may be intentional by the staff."

"Oh?" Mrs. Abbott leaned forward.

"Indeed." I said somberly. "I'm honestly not sure where to begin. I've been meeting with Filius Flitwick – the Charms Instructor," I explained for Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, "and he's been helping me prepare my lessons. I must confess, after a week of working with him, it's clear to me how utterly unqualified I was for this position."

At their reassuring murmurs I pressed the point. "No, it's the truth. My exploits, such as they are, have been in the bestiary, but have left me rather ill-equipped for exploits in a school. Unfortunately, my employment contract was quite binding, so I'm afraid Hogwarts is rather stuck with me for the next year. Rest assured, I shall do my best to overcome my inexperience, though I understand few of my predecessors displayed such… moral fiber."

Now Mrs. Finch-Fletchley leaned forward as I took a deep breath. "It seems… well, Flitwick assures me, that of my last ten predecessors, six were hopeless teachers, three actually attacked students, and one… ah, that one was a pedophile." Both women paled. "Obviously this isn't widely known. I learned it myself only after Flitwick ambushed me." They gasped, I grinned reassuringly. "He wished to ensure that I wouldn't rank among the dangerous ones. He instituted the policy after it became clear that the Headmaster's hiring practices would not… alter when it alteration found."

"…nor bend with the remover to remove," Mrs. Finch-Flechley inserted in the momentary silence. "You know Shakespeare?"

I smiled roguishly. "I was muggle-born myself. I've try to keep my roots."

Mrs. Abbott shook her head impatiently. "Yes, yes, this is all very fascinating, but back to what you were saying, how is it possible…?" Her voice rose dangerously.

"I honestly can't say, though I imagine the Headmaster's political allies helped keep it out of the papers. But that hardly explains all of it. Did you know, for instance, that the Headmaster announced at the beginning of last year, and I quote, that 'the third floor corridor is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death'? Can you imagine? He said that, to a Hall full of children."

The two women were literally speechless.

"What's so curious about this is that none of those children thought to write home to their parents about it. I can't imagine such a thing was coincidence. Perhaps there was a mail-ward, or some other device Dumbledore used to keep news from leaving the castle. Certainly it's not the only thing he kept a tight lid on. In this matter he did contact Law Enforcement, but his report was incomplete. It seems my most recent predecessor was an unmarked servant of… You-Know-Who." I self-censored to spare them the horror of the name. "Dumbledore had apparently hidden within that third floor corridor an artifact of considerable power, one that could be used in some sort of necromantic rite, to restore or resurrect the fallen Dark Lord."

Mrs. Abbot's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "This was Quirrell? Merlin, you think you know someone! He was in Ravenclaw two years below me. I helped him once when his classmates were teasing him – and all this time he was working on You-Know-Who's behalf?"

"I imagine that came some time later." I said dryly.

She didn't seem to hear, so caught up was she in her recollections.

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley seemed torn between silently taking another sip of tea or contributing what was on her mind. She chose to set down the tea. "I… I'm not sure if it's related, but one of Justin's letters did mention… well, it seems at the End of Year Feast Harry Potter and some of his Gryffindor house-mates received a significant number of house-points, even though it was never clarified exactly why those points were given. Justin thought it was just favoritism by the staff to make sure the Boy-Who-Lived won the House Cup, but from what you're telling us—"

"Wait, the Boy-Who-Lived was involved in this fiasco?" Mrs. Abbot interjected.

"Indeed, it was Harry Potter who ensured that Quirrel's plans did not succeed."

That rocked them on their heels.

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley sighed heavily, picked up her tea, and looked at me expectantly. "So. The staff is incompetent, and tried to keep us in the dark to hide their incompetence. The Headmaster has either laid plans within plans, or his mind is utter mush, which leaves a first year boy as the only responsible adult in the whole _bloody_ school." Mrs. Abbott seemed more shocked by her posh friend's swearing than anything I had yet said. "Now tell me why I shouldn't have Justin transferred to Eton, or for that matter St. Trinian's, since even that seems preferable to the Hogwarts you've described for us."

I quirked an eyebrow.

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley quirked one of her own right back at me.

I blinked first. Damn. "Unfortunately…"

"Of course. It gets worse?" I'm still not sure how she managed to convey such... belligerent resignation.

I looked at Mrs. Abbott, who seemed to enjoy our back-and-forth. "Oh no, I'm not going to _ennervate_ you, keep talking."

I sighed. "Yes, it gets worse. First, I'm not familiar with the Hogwarts Charter or Ministry law, but I'm reasonably sure that they treated you during that first visit as though you had no choice for the simple reason that you, in fact, didn't. Magic can do all kinds of things, you know. It can let a person disappear from one place and reappear in another. It can make you change your mind and send your son to school. It could make you forget you had a child at all, if you become too much of a nuisance to them. Given the general attitude towards _muggles_," I emphasized the word deliberately, "I wouldn't be surprised that that were a regular occurrence."

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley was practically hyperventilating by the time I'd finished. "No one told us…" She couldn't finish.

"Of course they wouldn't. The Ministry has a whole department set up to handle memory wipes. They call 'em Obliviations. Usually it's to hide evidence of magic around people who aren't in the know, but I know a few folks who use it for more… nefarious purposes."

I didn't mention the fact that until two weeks ago I was one of those folks.

"So I'm not sure you ever had a choice, though they may have pretended you did for the sake of your child. But you should know that's not the only thing magic can do to you. Sure they can erase your memories, and who knows what horrible things that can hide. But even if your memories were safe, your mind might not be. Some wizards are capable of reading your thoughts at a glance. It's called Legilimency, and I am told at least two members of the staff are casual practitioners."

Now Mrs. Abbott leaned forward, more than a little pale herself. "No, you can't be serious!" She paused. "Safe to say the Headmaster is one, I assume? But who is the other? I wouldn't think—"

"Professor Snape." I answered.

If anything she grew almost as pale as Mrs. Finch-Fletchley. "No! Hannah's mentioned a few things about him—"

"Justin too." Mrs. Finch-Fletchley piped in.

"But that was… too much, I could hardly believe, but this! This… you mean she might have been serious?" She sounded horrified at the very thought.

"Mrs. Abbott," I derailed her train of thought. "I've also heard such stories about Professor Snape. Because I lack first-hand experience, I will for now give him the benefit of the doubt. But I assure you, if the reality is but a fraction of what horrors I've been told, I will make it my mission to drive him from Hogwarts before the year is out."

Admittedly, giving Snape the benefit of the doubt would mostly be a ploy to avert Dumbledore's suspicions. I play the blind trusting fool, he doesn't realize I'm gaining political traction until it's too late. But despite all that… I really don't know what to do with Snape. On the one hand, he's a horrible person and a horrible potions instructor – this much is obvious, at least according to Flitwick and Rowling, respectively. And it must be said that he is just as much a minion of Dumbledore as he ever was of Voldemort. But then… he seemed to hold Dumbledore in such delicious contempt, and who knows how useful that might be?

I took a deep breath. "No, whatever my suspicions I will give the staff a sporting chance. But if Hogwarts is as moribund as you and I suspect, then the only possible end that would satisfy me is not reform but revolution, complete and wholesale. I hardly dare keep such responsibility in my own hands, so I hope to involve as many others in this venture as I can. To be honest, that's why I wrote the letter in the first place. I had some idea of how broken things were, and the past week has only brought more issues to light. Will you assist me?"

In that moment Ms. Annabeth Abbott and Ms. Jacqueline Finch-Fletchley seemed to forget their staid existence as middle-class middle-aged mothers of middling children, as they remembered fondly their rebellious youths, so many lifetimes ago.

I don't say that because I'm suddenly a third-person omniscient narrator.

I don't even say that because I used Legilimency to follow their responses.

No, I say that because they both giggled.

Simultaneously.

It was… disconcerting.

It was also evidently a bonding moment, as the two women looked at each other with wide disbelieving eyes – as though to ask the other, 'where did that come from?' – only to let loose another pair of giggles at their synchronous responses.

I cleared my throat.

Both women seemed to jolt in their seats, probably forgetting that I was present. And had been observing them. Awkwardly.

"So." I paused, not really sure what to say. Oh well, let's wrap it up. "Flitwick's already expressed interest in meeting with our group, however many families we gather, and he'll probably check with some of the other staff as well. Don't worry – he'll keep the invitations for only the competent members of staff, if I know him."

I smiled. "He had a few ideas as well. First, I think we should keep all this, what I've told you, to ourselves for now. Muggle generals call it 'stealing a march'; chess-players call it 'taking a tempo.' As long as they don't know what we're doing, they can't respond to it. This also means we should avoid anyone who'd blab on this group to the Headmaster or his supporters, like the Weasleys. Frankly, we should also avoid suspected… erm, _Dark _families if we can. Malfoy's on the Board of Governors, and I know he and the Headmaster had been jostling for control of the school for a while now. He'd probably oppose reform just as much as Dumbledore would – he's after power, not progress, and if he knows of our plans he and others could just as easily act against us."

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley asked, "But between the two of them, what hope do we have?"

"Well, if they waste their ammo on each other, they'll be weakened in a fight against us, right?"

Mrs. Abbott cut in, "Wait… 'ammo'?"

"Sorry, muggle term. How about this: if they curse each other, they won't be ready to shield against us?"

"Better. Thanks."

"No problem. You see the idea?"

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley nodded. "Of course, though I still don't think it's enough. We should put out feelers for allies among the Governors, maybe get our people in the Ministry as well. With Dumbledore as Headmaster and Malfoy on the Board, we need people with comparable influence if we intend to make any sort of headway."

I thought for a moment. "You're right, but working with the Ministry and Governors would be too risky, at least for now. I might have an inroad to the Ministry already, but that'll be our long game. For now, we focus on parents and teachers and keep flying under the radar." As soon as I finished saying it I knew Mrs. Abbott wouldn't have been able to follow.

"What?"

"Imagine a muggle _Hominem Revelio_, and trying to avoid being detected by it."

"But how—?"

"Just use your imagination."

"Oh. Right then."

* * *

A/N: Thanks again to my reviewers. Many of you have helped me develop the future of this story, and I greatly appreciate the feedback. Here's some responses:

**Katzztar** (id:163355): A big inspiration for this fic is my desire to fill in the gaps left by canon, especially when it comes to utilizing Rowling's world to its fullest extent. So yes, dwarves will most certainly be on the menu. At some point I may involve the International Confederation of Wizards (ICW) and bring in a bit of European history as well. The previous chapter alluded to a lot of different elements that should be fleshed out in the future.

**AiSard** (id:902503): If quoting you here prompts such a complete response, I don't have any qualms about doing so again. Thanks for bringing my attention to some of the issues involved in having the cultures of multiple sentient races interact. There may be a few other such races on the horizon as well, though I do want to avoid the 'kitchen sink' trap of writing. I also (finally) figured out how to make Rowling's incoherent money system work in a realistic way, which pleased me immensely.

**jdboss1** (id:1450669): Don't worry, goblins will be backstabbin'. I think you raise a good point about how imbalanced magical oaths are in this fic. I may need to rework the system in some of the earlier chapters. As for making myself a horcrux... well, insurance against death would be nice, but in this fic, 'soul magic' is pretty much synonymous with child sacrifice, which is why it's so horrifying (and also why you won't be seeing any soul bonds).

**Joe-Lawyer** (id:2196883): My SI will definitely be using his knowledge to help himself... so long as it helps others as well. Most of his actions will be on behalf of others, or rationalized on behalf of others, but look to see more than a few benefits accrue to his account. (Future knowledge is useful for so many things.) As for whether those benefits include female companionship... no. There may be a romance side-story, but it won't be based on future knowledge or Lockhart's celebrity.


	12. Afternoon with an Auror

Gilding the Son of Lily  
By Publicola

A/N: I'm back! I made a few important revisions & additions to 'Chap. 7: Of Pensieve and Post,' so I'd encourage people re-read that chapter.

* * *

**Afternoon with an Auror**

It was admittedly underwhelming, to return from my meeting with the Hufflepuff mothers in eager anticipation of the next episode in the 'Snape & the Marauders: Year Five' soap opera, only to discover that any developments occurred off-screen.

On the other hand, it was only at the end of Fifth Year that I finally began to comprehend Flitwick's lesson plans, and saw how the 150-plus spells in the Charms curriculum fit together.

I could hardly fault Flitwick for my lack of understanding. Charms is undeniably the most scatter-shot of all the classes taught at Hogwarts, covering everything from dancing pineapples to the Fidelius Charm. Flitwick may have presented each charm in a clear and concise manner, but where was the logic in progressing from levitation to mending to tickling charms in successive weeks?

As I'd previously seen, Charms was for First Year primarily about wand-movements, and for Second Year primarily about area of effect. While there were exceptions — a few esoteric wand-movements like the widdershins and deasil curlicues would not be introduced until Third Year — these summaries were easy enough to discern.

But a summary of the Charms curriculum from Second Year on? Bloody impossible. The 'far grander' classification scheme that Flitwick had promised at the end of Second Year was still nowhere in sight as we rounded the Easter holidays of Fifth Year.

And then something... shifted.

I'm not sure how it happened, but one moment I was lost, and the next the planets aligned, and nearly every piece of information I'd gathered about Charms fell into place.

The classification scheme Flitwick had alluded to relied on a set of philosophical distinctions, based on the metaphysical notion of accidental properties. Where transfiguration may target and alter the very essence of an object (form of matchstick to form of needle, for instance), charms only affect the non-intrinsic properties, called 'accidents.'

Aristotle defined nine types of accidents, and the magical world has largely retained his usage.

The first category involves Quantity, the question of 'how much?' This class of charm is typified by _Gemino_, which duplicates an object. The pickings in this particular category are rather slim, however.

The next category involves Quality, and the pickings here are far more extensive. Accidents of quality affect everything from the shape and dimensions of an object (e.g., _Engorgio_, or more daringly, the Undetectable Extension Charm), to color (_Colovaria_), to even the state of matter (_Spongify_).

The third category involves Chronology, the question of 'when?' Naturally, most charms of this sort are guarded rather zealously by the Unspeakables. On the other hand, _Tempus_ is considered simple enough for the Second Year curriculum, and there are several charms used in NEWT-level Herbology that can marginally age or rejuvenate a plant for maximum potency.

The next category involves Location, the question of 'where?' The concept is rather easy to grasp, as is the spell-work related to it, such the compass-like '_Point Me_' charm, not to mention the highly-regulated Portkey creation spell.

The fifth category involves Arrangement, which defines the connection of a part to the whole. In the limited sense, this comprised statements like "my hand is raised," which wouldn't seem particularly useful for Charms. In the broader sense, however, this kind of charm encompasses practically every form of relative motion, and the variety of these is nearly limitless. There are, thankfully, several ways to classify and sort them. The first is by their object: the simplest charms for inert objects, more complex for objects infused with magic, and the most advanced when dealing with beings possessing a magical core. Another classification method is by type of movement: _Leviosa _charms lift or levitate, for instance, while _Locomotor_ allows for lateral movement. Of course, that's not to mention the plethora of other charms intended to summon, banish, ascend, cease motion, etc.

The next category involves Relation, the twin questions of 'with what?' or 'of what?' Where Arrangement defines parts to the whole, Relation defines the connection between independent entities (as in the statement "she is my wife"). The Protean Charm is representative of this category, along with any charm that operates on the sympathetic principle.

The seventh category involves Action, which surprisingly does not mean motion, but rather means the elements that define how a thing might act on others. Take for instance the Flame-Freezing Charm, which affects the ability of a fire to warm or burn objects around it, or the Cheering Charm, first taught in Third Year, which affects the emotions of a targeted magical being.

The next category involves Passion, which touches on any element that is the result of past action, influence, or change. This would include almost all healing charms (_Episkey,_ etc.) along with a number of hexes, jinxes, curses, and other spells better left to DADA.

The ninth and final category involves Possession, which relates to practically everything to do with the verb 'to have.' This class of charm would thus encompass anything from disarming spells (I "have" a wand), to concealing and revealing charms (it "has" certain information), and even obliviation (we "have" memories).

As we neared the end of Fifth Year, my earlier disappointment had been long since displaced by the triumphal flush of comprehension. I couldn't help but share my discovery with Flitwick, who bore it with all the patience of a parent listening to their child's first knock-knock joke.

"…it explains everything!" I finished.

"Not quite," he cautioned. "You're almost there, but you're forgetting something. You know what that might be?"

"Oh." Sure, rain on my parade, why not. "Erm… did I miss an accident somewhere in there?"

"No, you did well; Aristotle only described nine."

"Well, good, because I was really sure about that one. It's like the four virtues, or the seven deadly sins – hard to forget a nice simple number like that, you know?"

"Indeed." He looked at me expectantly.

Clearly he wasn't going to let me off the hook. "I haven't the foggiest. Help me out?"

Flitwick sighed. "You're forgetting that no classification scheme is complete without exceptions."

"An exception." I deadpanned. "Really." How very helpful of him.

Flitwick stared me down with a disappointed mien, which freaked me out seeing as the goblin facial expression for disappointment bears remarkable resemblance to the one for hunger.

Also, how was he staring me down? His head only came up to my navel. "Fine then."

What was I missing? If it wasn't an accident, it was something to do with essence, but that was the purview of transfiguration, not an element of the Charms curricu— wait, could it be that simple?

I spoke carefully. "If I recall correctly, transfiguration can do most anything with the elemental composition of an object, but it doesn't deal so well with elements on their own."

Flitwick grinned toothily. "Spot on. The usual name for this tenth category is 'Creation.' It deals with low-level conjuring of various elements, such as …?" He prompted me.

"Well, there's the four basics – fire…"

"_Incendio_," he set the floor under my feet afire.

"Air—augh!" I leapt back.

"_Ventus_," the flames mushroomed under a gust of wind.

"Stop that! Put it out!"

"With what?"

"What d'ya mean, with what?"

"What element's next?"

"You mean earth?"

"Wrong! Raw earth can only be conjured, not created. What's next?"

"Water, water!"

"There it is. _Aguamenti_!" He doused the fire.

I turned on him. "What is wrong with you?"

"A little practical application never hurt anyone," he smirked. "There's a reason I let my students figure all this out by experience: you think you'll ever forget it?"

"No, though I'm tempted to down a few liters of firewhiskey right now, so ask me again tomorrow morning."

"Pish posh, you'll be fine. Now, you did omit a few of the more esoteric elements like ice, lightning, that sort of thing, but we'll covering most of those in NEWT classes. Any questions?"

However much I might wish to throttle him, there was one pressing question. "Why aren't these categories taught from the beginning of class? They make so much sense out of this – why wouldn't you share that with students?"

Flitwick's gaze turned somber. "I did, once. But I learned a quick lesson. You cannot believe how easy it is for students to fall prey to complacency and overconfidence. Every year I would watch them, even the muggle-born, learn to treat magic as being somehow banal, or as though they had plumbed its deepest mysteries with a First Year spell-book. In time I took to omitting the classifications, letting my lessons move from charm to charm without regard for the categories."

"But you still shared the nine types of visualization exercises, not to mention the common wand movements…"

"So the perceptive students would catch on regardless, and their retention would be all the stronger for having discovered it on their own."

"And the others?"

He sighed. "Well, they can still perform the charms, even if they don't appreciate the finer points." He paused and looked back at the pensieve. "I think we should call it a night. All that remains of Fifth Year is the OWLs, and I hardly think you'd find it interesting to watch me stand around for several hours proctoring tests."

Well this was irksome. I had so hoped to see for myself the confrontation that Harry had seen in Snape's pensieve, which took place after a DADA exam Flitwick proctored. But I couldn't exactly give that as a reason, now could I?

Flitwick soon departed through the Floo, leaving me to my thoughts.

Speaking of OWLs…

* * *

Early the next morning, I sat at my writing desk and grabbed a sheet of parchment.

_Professor __Tofty,_

I scratched that out.

_Professor Eigen_,

_Thank you for passing along your recommendations for my reading list. I greatly enjoyed your company two days ago, and ask that you pass along my compliments to Professor Vector as well._

_If I may ask, would you be able to pass along copies of the OWL and NEWT test questions for DADA? I wish to ensure that my students are caught up before their end-of-year tests. Any OWL exams from other courses would be appreciated as well, as I'd like to tailor my course to related content being taught in other classes._

_Lastly, as I speak German, I could not help but be intrigued by your given name – Eigenlich Sachlich. You wouldn't, by any chance, be acquainted with a muggle family from Pennsylvania, USA, that goes by the name Berenstain, would you?_

_Best regards,_

_Gilderoy Lockhart_

I signed and sealed the letter, and set it aside to make room for my next. I'd left Slughorn with several memories of Snape, but now I reminded him to send me the full seven years' worth, not only including his memories of Potions class, but also any observations on power politics in the snake pit. He was the Slytherin Head of House for quite a few decades, after all.

That done, I picked up my incoming mail. Most could be safely discarded, but there was one from Dirk Cresswell that caught my eye.

_Mr. Lockhart,_

_Finally heard back from Ragnok about the Potter will. Turns out the manager's stonewalling was partly justified, as the will was sealed by Wizengamot order around the time of the Potter's death. Ragnok says that unsealing it would require either a countermand, or approval from an executor. Get this, though: the first executor is the younger Mrs. Longbottom – the one in St. Mungo's Thickey Ward – while the other is the traitor Black! I don't see any way forward, do you?_

_Cresswell_

Interesting. My reply was a single line.

_Ask to meet with Amelia Bones about the 'traitor Black,' and tell her I sent you. You'll be surprised._

_Lockhart_

I duplicated his letter with a brief explanation to send to Amelia, and added both to my outgoing pile.

Then Flitwick floo-called me and it was time to start on his memories of Sixth Year.

Once again, it was oddly uneventful, at least on the social side of things. Snape seemed to keep a very low profile, and didn't even try to retaliate against James for the humiliation of last sprinng. Sirius remained fairly downcast, despite Regulus occasionally approaching the group to seek reconciliation. His efforts were abortive. Lily also had an uncharacteristically gloomy disposition, though that shouldn't have surprised me. Living next door to Snape after his public repudiation of their friendship must have made for a dismal summer.

As far as course content went, Sixth Level Charms added even more exceptions to the nine-point rule, introducing several NEWT-level sub-topics that could be pursued for further study or even a Mastery. These specializations might range from elemental magic –the sort I'd been reading about for the last several nights – to enchantment of magical items, and most anything in between.

Soon, we broke for lunch, and Flitwick left for the afternoon while I prepared to meet with Hestia Jones.

I honestly wasn't sure what to expect. On the one hand, Amelia recommended her as an ally and friend. On the other hand… well, my encounter with her sister Gwenog had left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth.

I Floo-called at the appointed time and with her permission stepped into the emerald flame.

My brief glimpse of her moments before had been underwhelming, but I stumbled on exiting the Floo with my first good look at her. Hestia Jones was not what most people would call pretty. She wasn't ugly by any means, but her features were fairly plain. Yet there was something in her expression – an intensity in her eyes, a gentleness to her features – that immediately grabbed my attention.

Of course, part of that may have been my battle instincts, for there was much intensity and little gentleness in her stature at the moment. She beckoned me over to a table, and as I neared I saw her tighten her grip on her wand.

"Mr. Lockhart."

She paused and grimaced.

"Mr. Lockhart, I should tell you that this was _not_ my idea. I suppose I am grateful that you brought these matters to our attention, but I do not see why we must continue to work with you, of all people."

Only Occlumency allowed me to look at ease. "Me… of all people?"

"Yes, you of all people. What, you think I should trust you? You, the gentleman adventurer whose extraordinary feats are acclaimed by all but witnessed by none, whose books are so incredible, so implausible, and filled with so much self-congratulatory mush that the only reason I don't accuse you of secretly being a peacock animagus is because that would require you to possess a modicum of actual talent!"

…

_Ouch. _Sure, most of that could justly be applied to the old Lockhart, but damn if it didn't hurt to hear now. "Ah." Where to go from here? "Your sister Gwenog mentioned you might be like this."

"Like what?"

"She said you thought my books were hokum."

"They are."

"She also said you hadn't read them."

"Of course she would. Otherwise she might have to give up on her pitiful crush on you."

"The same crush that made her try a love-potion on me?"

"Oh?"

"Because I do wonder whether that incident might not be the real reason for your disdain of me."

"I'm not my sister."

"I didn't say you were. You don't look like you could bench-press me, for one."

"No, I mean, my sister and I don't see eye to eye."

"Well you are taller than she is."

She growled. "Why must you be so obtuse? My sister is a spoiled brat, and we haven't gotten along since she seduced my boyfriend in Sixth Year. Any time she makes a fool of herself is occasion for me to rejoice. Now, what is your point?"

All right, that didn't work. Time to tack to the wind. "Only this: if you did indeed read my books , perhaps you remember where you got them?"

"Flourish & Blotts, of course." Her eyes reflected her confusion.

"And what section were they in?"

She paused. "…Adventure?"

"That's right. I imagine that's not the sort of section you frequent, but did you happen to see what other books were on the same shelf?"

She shook her head.

"Thought so." I smirked. "It turns out my books are next-door neighbors with the Harry Potter adventure series. Strange, don't you think?"

She was momentarily at a loss for words. "But those are fiction, that's…"

"Are they? Or are they true stories from long ago, recast with the Boy-Who-Lived in the starring role? I don't doubt many wizards are too dim to note the difference, but we can safely blame that on Binns, not Blotts. We live in a story-book world, Ms. Jones, a world where the fantastical occurs every day and even our fairy tales are based on historical events. If certain adventures were exaggerated, if the details of others were edited out or altered, I would have done nothing that hadn't been done a thousand times before, and with very good reason."

For a brief moment Hestia gaped like a guppy, but the interrogation soon continued. "So you admit that you are not the hero of your own adventures?"

"Not all of them, no."

"Which ones?"

"That would be telling."

"How does this not make you a fraud?"

"I prefer to call myself a writer of homages."

"Is there a difference?"

"Mine won't get me saddled with a fine?"

"I think public humiliation is more the order of the day."

"I'll have you know my books conform to the standard practice for published adventurers."

"Really? Do tell." Her expression was one of utter skepticism.

"You seem to forget, madam, that we live in a world where it is an everyday occurrence for mere _intention_ to alter reality. You can't seriously believe that I would provide actual facts, when those facts could be so easily abused by readers as a primer on curses, dark creatures, and battle magic. No, my books are to entertain, not instruct. And if this approach also causes perceptive readers to under-estimate my abilities, all the more reason."

I had put considerable thought into this issue since arriving in this world, and was rather pleased with the defense I'd constructed. Most of it was true enough – Blotts didn't have a 'Fiction' section; most wizards didn't have a clue – and the parts that weren't true still allowed me to backtrack my more ridiculous claims without getting sent to Azkaban.

Soon enough Hestia recovered, a new light in her eyes. "You are not what I expected, Mr. Lockhart."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't—no, I suppose it actually was a compliment."

"I know."

The light dimmed somewhat. "Doesn't mean I like you."

"Didn't think you would."

"If anything, I'm now even more inclined to think you're a peacock animagus."

"And what's your opinion of my plumage?"

"I think—" She stopped and glared at me. "Now you're just mocking me."

"Not really. I just find it terribly amusing that you haven't yet realized my public persona is mostly an act."

"Oh." The light dawned anew. "Really?"

"Well, I've had a great deal of practice at making it convincing."

She scoffed. "I'll say!"

"Again, thank you."

"That's wasn't a compliment."

"Doesn't stop me from taking it as one."

She growled.

"Right." I scrambled. "Wasn't this meeting supposed to be about the Sirius Black case?"

Her shoulders straightened. "So it was. How much do you know?"

"Well, I was the one who reported Harry's abuse and caught Pettigrew, so I'm up to speed with that. Also, I heard from my contact with the goblins that Sirius Black is a co-executor of the Potter Will, and the only one who can countermand the Wizengamot seal. It's not hard to connect the dots back to Dumbledore, though I don't know all the particulars."

She thought for a moment. "Well, much as I hate to burst your bubble, you should know it's practically impossible to connect the dots back to Dumbledore, but I'm still looking into it. On the other hand, it turns out that the Black case has surprisingly strong leads back to our inestimable Minister."

"Fudge?"

"Amelia said I needed a secrecy oath from you before I could say more."

"Done." I made the oath.

"All right, how much do you know about the days following You-Know-Who's defeat?"

"Not much; I was still in Hogwarts at the time."

"Same for me, which made digging through the records quite a challenge. Here's what we've figured out, from memory and the summary sheet. The day after You-Know-Who's defeat, a report came in of a major magical explosion in Swindon. Fudge, who was at the time the Junior Minister in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, was the first to arrive on the scene. Fudge reported seeing Sirius Black still cackling about Pettigrew's death, with his wand still pointed at the crater. Fudge stunned him, cuffed him with magic-dampeners, called for back-up, and started reconstructing the scene."

"Reconstructing?"

"Area-effect mending charms on the street and damaged café."

"What, he just cleared the scene without even checking it out?"

"Of course, it's standard protocol. We're not like the muggle police, Mr. Lockhart. Our first rule is to preserve the Statute of Secrecy. After all, we can always view the scene again in a pensieve, or get the truth from witnesses."

That's fair. "Except in this case he did neither."

"Well, we're getting there. Fudge transferred custody of Black to Barty Crouch Jr., who was at the time running the Auror Investigations office."

"Wait…"

"Yeah, I know. It wasn't two days later that Crouch Jr. was caught alongside three other Death Eaters torturing Frank and Alice Longbottom to insanity. It fell to Crouch Sr., who headed the DMLE, to sentence his son to Azkaban and then to tap his replacement for the Investigative Office. He turned to Cornelius Fudge, riding a wave of popularity after being credited with Black's capture."

"So it was Fudge who ran the whole show, front to back."

"Believe me, it gets worse. See, the whole time, Black was being held in Azkaban, under dementor guard – since he was such a menace, you know. But then Junior was out and Fudge was in, and it took another two weeks before anyone got around to actually questioning him. That was the date given for Black's confession, at least, when it was leaked to the _Prophet._"

"Wait, Black confessed?"

"Not really. The published transcript is pretty short, and most of it is just variations on 'I killed them.' Normally that statement would be invalidated, since exposure to dementors is known to elicit false feelings of guilt, but that detail never appeared in the _Prophet_. Fudge was so new to the position, he might not have even known about that rule in the first place. And so Black's words were taken as proof positive that he had killed Pettigrew and the twelve muggles, and had led You-Know-Who to the Potter home."

"To be fair, though, 'I killed them' is pretty unambiguous. What do you suppose Black meant by it?"

"Well, we know from the rat that Black suggested Pettigrew as Secret-Keeper, so the dementors probably wrecked havoc on sense of responsibility for that."

"Ah, that makes sense."

"I know." She parroted my earlier words with a smirk. "Now, it was around this time that Crouch was running the trials of captured and implicated Death Eaters. But after his son's capture, Crouch's influence waned considerably, and many of the accused were let off the hook. I think it's safe to say that bribery may have also played a role," Hestia noted with a wry grimace.

She pressed on. "Here's where it becomes speculation. We believe Fudge was the one to persuade Crouch to forgo a trial in the Black case. Given the many setbacks Crouch had suffered with the trials, I doubt he'd want to risk letting Black walk free like the others. That would certainly explain the gap in the record. As for why Fudge's reasons to avoid a trial, maybe he had finally gotten around to reading the rulebook, and worried that Black's confession might be thrown out if it came to trial. It's also possible that Fudge was encouraged to look the other way by Lucius Malfoy."

"Why would Malfoy care?"

"Because Malfoy's son was next in line to inherit. Sirius' mother might have favored his younger brother, but after Regulus disappeared in '79, Arcturus had no choice but to acknowledge Sirius as heir apparent. If Sirius could be gotten out of the way, though, the estate would pass first to Pollux, then to Pollux's grandson through Narcissa Malfoy."

"But couldn't Narcissa inherit, or one of her sisters?"

"Nope, I checked. Black family rules only allow the men to inherit."

"That's not common, is it?"

She laughed. "No, it's pretty rare to see a House go for exclusive patriarchal descent like that. I think the Prewetts may have a rule about matriarchal descent, but those families are definitely the exception. You may have noticed, but the magical world doesn't really struggle with sexism like muggles do. Our last Minister was a woman, for Merlin's sake. Men may be generally stronger in physical terms, but that's not the case with magical power, which pretty effectively levels the playing field."

"Indeed." Well, thank heavens for that; at least I won't have to deal with the sort of freaky sex-slave clichés you see in some fan-fics. "Back to Malfoy, though."

"Oh right. As I was saying, Malfoy became one of Fudge's major patrons, especially after Fudge's election. But that's a story in itself."

"What story?"

"Of how Fudge became Minister. You mean you don't know? How could you have missed it? It was barely two years ago."

"Hey, you read my books, I've been away for a while. I haven't paid attention to affairs in Britain until just recently."

"Fine, guess I'll have to fill you in. Now, as you may know, Barty Crouch Sr. was promoted to head the DMLE in the middle of the war, after his predecessor was assassinated. His approach to the conflict was 'fight fire with fire,' which made him quite a popular figure and the odds-on favorite to replace Bagnold. But then Junior was discovered to be a Death Eater, and it all fell apart."

She took a breath. "Part of the scandal was the fact that his son was a Death Eater, but a much bigger scandal was the fact that a Death Eater had been Crouch's second-in-command, in charge of the entire Investigative arm. Junior's arrest put into question every piece of evidence the DMLE had gathered on any Death Eater who hadn't been literally caught in the act."

"Holy hell..."

"Yup. So when all of them went free under the _Imperius_ Defense, Crouch received the blame. He was demoted to the Department of International Cooperation, and Amelia was promoted to replace him."

"What a nightmare. Still doesn't explain how Fudge became Minister, though."

"I'm getting there," she huffed. "Now, when a Minister retires, the one in charge of the DMLE is the one most often tapped for the head gig, for a number of reasons. But Amelia didn't want the job. She told everyone she was quite comfortable working in law enforcement. So the Wizengamot went looking. All the other Department Heads were too old, too specialized, or too unacceptable for some reason or other. They asked Dumbledore, but he declined as he always does. But at last they landed on Cornelius Fudge, who had over the past decade cultivated a reputation as a war hero responsible for single-handedly capturing You-Know-Who's second-in-command, Sirius Black himself!"

"You've got to be joking."

"Nope. That's why I said it would get worse. Our esteemed Minister built his entire campaign around the Sirius Black case. Sure, with Malfoy's money and Dumbledore's implicit support, Fudge sailed to an easy victory in the polls. But without the Black case, he's a non-entity."

Wow. "I suppose that explains why he sealed the case."

"And keeps all the documentation in his office, where investigators like me can't get to it."

"Good thing we have the rat to bust the case open."

She grinned as toothily as any goblin I'd ever seen. "Indeed."

I shivered. "Right. Last question: what was Dumbledore's role in all this?"

"That's what I can't figure. From where I'm sitting, Dumbledore had to be involved. Dumbledore had every reason to want Sirius out of the way, at least assuming he's looking to control the Potter kid. He's the head of the Wizengamot, sat on the Council of Magical Law, and is the one person the DMLE must consult when sentencing criminals. Dumbledore had to have signed off on Crouch's plan to forgo a trial. But he's like a ghost in the bureaucratic machine. If his signature's anywhere, it'd have to be in Fudge's file, because I looked everywhere else."

"Everywhere?" I grinned. I couldn't help it.

"You ever heard of the Spirit Division archives? I checked there because I thought they might have records of Azkaban. Do you have any idea how creepy that place is? Believe me," she glared. "I checked everywhere!"

"Yes ma'am!" For a brief moment it looked like she might deck me, so I hastily tried to pacify her. "I've never been to the Spirit archives, but I don't doubt it. So I suppose the case against Dumbledore will have to wait until we bring Crouch and Fudge down?"

"You mean, until we bring them down _hard_; but no, we got nothing on the big guy. Unless you've got another rat running around somewhere?"

"Sadly, no."

"Pity. Though Dumbledore certainly won't look so good when his protégé falls."

"Protégé?"

"Merlin, you are witless, aren't you? Malfoy's money may have opened some doors, but it was Dumbledore's patronage that allowed Fudge to build his reputation and political base."

"Huh. Between Malfoy and Dumbledore, Fudge must have had the Wizengamot sewn up."

"Tighter than a _Reparo_."

"Just as it was between the pair of them that Sirius got burned."

"Hotter than a – well, you know."

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading! Thanks to all the reviewers who continue to help improve this story. Here are some responses to select reviewers:

**Guest** (10/22/12) and **TrisakAminawn** (id:723459): Thanks for constructive feedback! I would agree with you, that when we see Snape during the canon years he is undeniably a loner. But at least in this fic, I'll be arguing that that was only the end result of a long string of events that left him that way. This'll mainly be covered via Slughorn's memories in future chapters, but rest assured: Snape only became a ringleader because of the peculiar nature of Slytherin house politics, and he won't last for very long.

**Reader-anonymous-writer** (id:2788678): I don't consider _Depulso _to be anything more powerful than a punch or a Knock-Back hex. As for _Hominem Revelio, _all of the above: its function is to detect the presence of a human mind.

**Eldani** (id:777115): Well, having Secrets of the Darkest Art in the Hogwarts library is canon. I always figured that the library contains almost every book, but that there are levels of access to the Restrict Section – some are accessible with a general pass, others require a specific "this teacher says you can pick up this book" pass.

**Bakkasama** (id:2025352): I wanted to let Lockhart find his feet before dealing him a body blow. Things will get more difficult for him in the near future.

**notBald** (id:557937): I'm well aware that magical oaths are potential world-breakers in terms of how overpowered they can be. I'll be addressing that very soon, even as soon as the next chapter.

**Butalearner** (id:4024547): Thanks for the positive review: Your fic, "A Curse of Truth," is one of the best works in this genre, and a benchmark by which I measure my fic. As for the stilted nature of the early chapters, I've had a few others say much the same thing, and I'm still not sure how to address it. My main problem is that I haven't yet met any characters, so the long chunks of text aren't broken up with dialogue.

**Kudou-Shinichi** (id:1067545): I'm going to say that mind-magic is only really applicable to humans. Otherwise… well, however awesome a slavishly loyal basilisk or dementor swarm would be, they'd imbalance the story so drastically I'd almost have to call it crack!

And to the dozen or so of you who were wondering: nope, this story hasn't yet given up the ghost. "Never give up! Never surrender."


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